


POETRY 



HOME AND SCHOOL 



SELECTED BY THE AUTHOR OF THE " THEORY 

OF TEACHING," AND " EDWARd's FIRST 

LESSONS IN GRAMMAR." 



BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED BY S. G. SIMPKINS. 

1843. 






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Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the Year 1843, 

By S. G. Simp K I Ns, 
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massacliusetta, 



/ 



PREFACE 



While school education especially aims to 
develope the understanding and form good men- 
tal habits, it must not neglect to interest the 
imagination and refine the taste. There is a 
delicacy of taste and of sentiment, and an intel- 
lectual richness, which can be perfected only by 
an intimate acquaintance with nature and art, 
and the human soul ; and the foundation of these 
may be most successfully laid in childhood by 
the study of poetry — of the finest thoughts 
clothed in the most attractive garb. 

It is with this design, of presenting beauty, 
both moral and natural, in its manifold shapes, 
as it is shown to us in the universe, that the 
present collection has been made. The pieces 
chosen are, with very few exceptions, entire, 
because passages are always injured by being 
taken from their connexion, and because young 
persons like to know the whole of a thing. They 
are short and selected from the whole range of 
English and American standard authors ; it being 
thought better to offer sentiments as they arise 
in a great variety of minds, and " mould them- 
selves into gentle verse." They are not ex- 



clusively of one school or time, — for beauty is 
not to be prisoned. The artist 6nds it not com- 
plete in one model, but studies it in all its ap- 
pearances, and then though he paint but one 
face or one landscape, he gives us the wealth of 
a world. 

In matters of taste and genius we should not 
limit our children ; we should rather rejoice that 
their larger souls perceive a beauty where ours 
find none. We must not say, " tlie trees of the 
forest may be beautiful, but 1 first learned beauty 
from my stately poplars, and they must satisfy 
my children." Nor should we reject the Flora 
of a new world, because rumor says, that Eden 
also has its weeds. 

It is not necessary to make known to teachers 
the want of a collection like the one now offered. 
Tlie best book of the sort has been for some 
time out of print ; and was intended exclusively 
for older pupils. While this collection has many 
pieces which must delight persons of any age, 
it has some for the youngest readers, and is as 
well adapted to the family circle as to the school. 
It gives to children all they could cull from many 
volumes, and if inwoven with their earliest recol- 
lections, will be remembered with delight in 
future years. 



CONTENTS. 



The Beggar Man, Miss Lamb, 

Lullaby on an Infant Chief, . . Sir Walter Scott, 

The Reaper's Child, Miss Lamb, . 

The Harper, Campbell, . 

A Child's Wish in June, . . . Mrs. Gilman, 

Feigned Courage, Miss Lamb, 

The Thirsty Fly, 

Going into Breeches, .... Miss Lamb, 

Lady Moon, Milnes, . 

The Orphan Brother, .... Miss Lamb, 

Ulysses' Dog, Pope, . . 

The Complaints of the Poor, . . Souihey, 

Good Temper, Miss Lamb, 

Cleanliness, ......... Miss Lamb, 

The Blind Boy, Colley Cibher, 

The Cottager to her Infant, . . Wordsworth, 

The Lame Brother, Miss Lamb, 

A Ballad, translated from Herder, by Mary Howitt, 

The Broken Doll, Miss Lamb, 

Blindness, Miss Lamb, 

A Negro's Song, from Park's Trav- 
els, versified by the Duchess of Devonshire, . 
Mabel on Midsummer Day, . . Mary Howitt, 

The Atheist and the Acorn, 

Pin, Needle, and Scissors, . . . Mrs. Fallen, 
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13 
14 
15 
15 
16 
17 
18 
19 
20 
21 
21 
22 
24 
25 
26 
27 
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29 
31 
32 

33 
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42 
43 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



We are Seven, 

The Beggar's Petition, . . 
John Barleycorn, .... 
The Great Grandfather, . . 
Choosing a Name, . . . 
The Wandering Boy, . . 
The Wind in a Frolic, . . 
The Northern Seas, . . . 
The Children in the Wood, 
The Use of Flowers, . . . 
To a Butterfly, .... 
To my Little Cousin with her 

Bonnet, 

The Young Letter Writer, 
On Another's Sorrow, . . 
The Nightingale and Glow-W 
The Pebble and the Acorn, 
To a Child During a Storm, 



First 



Night, 

Neatness in Apparel, . 
Childhood, .... 
Ranger's Grave, . . 
Lucy Gray, .... 
Christmas Times, . . 
The Pet Lamb, . . 
The Little Black Boy, 
The Exile of Erin, . 
The Spartan Boy, , . 
Alexander Selkirk, 
My Birth- Day, . . . 
The Ride, .... 
The Savoyard's Return, 
Gentle River, . . . 
Nose and Eyes, . . 



Wordsworth, . 
Sir John Morris, 
Burns, 
Miss Lavih, 
Miss Lamb, 
H. K. White, . 
William Hoicitt, 
William Hoicitt, 



Mary IJowitt, 
Wordsicorth, 

Mrs. Southey, 
Miss Lamb, 
Blahc, . . 
Cotcper, . . 
H.F. Gould, 
Friend of Wor 

worth, 
Blake, 
Miss Lamb, 
I. Scott, . . 
Mrs. Southey, 
Wordsworth, 
Howard, 
Wordsicorth, 
Blake, . . 
Campbell, 
Miss Lamb, . 
Cowper, . . 
Miss Lamb, 
Miss Lamb, 
H. K. White, 
Percy, 
Cowper, . . 



ds- 



46 
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65 

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67 
68 
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85 
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91 
92 
93 
94 
95 



CONTENTS. 



VU 



Traditionary Ballad, Mary Howitt, . 98 

Crumbs to the Birds, .... Miss Lamb, . 101 

To the Lady-Bird, Mrs. Souiltey, . 102 

The Rook and the Sparrow, . . Miss Lamb, . 103 

To a Red-Breast, Lunghorne, . 104 

Ode to the Cuciioo, Logan, . . . 104 

Mariner's Hymn, Mrs. Sovthey, . 105 

Tlie Two Estates, Mary Haicitt, . 107 

To the Rainbow, Campbell, . . 109 

To a Bee, Southey, . , 111 

John Gilpin, Cozcper, . . . 112 

Good Resolutions, Watts, . . . 121 

The Town and Country Child, . Cunningham, . 123 

The Two Boys, Miss Lamb, . 125 

A Song to Creating Wisdom, . . Watts, . . . 126 

The CofTee Slips, Miss Lamb, . 128 

Robin Hood Rescuing the Widow's 

Sons Old Eng. Ballads, 130 

Robin Hood and the Golden Arrow, " 133 
The King's Disguise and Friend- 
ship with Robin Hood, ... " 137 
Robin Hood and the Valiant Knight, " 140 
Robin Hood's Death and Burial, " 143 
Peace and tiie Shepherd, . . . Mrs. Barbauld, 146 
The Battle of Blenheim, . . . Southey,. . . 147 

To my Birdie, Mrs. Sovthey, . 149 

Ode to Solitude, Pope, ... 152 

The Inch-Cape Rock, .... Southey, . . 153 

The Grasshopper, Cowley, . . . 155 

A Pastoral Hymn, Mrs. Barbauld, 156 

Llewellyn's Dog, Spencer, . . . 157 

On a Highland Soldier, .... Gillespie, . . 161 
The Castle by the Sea. Translated 

from Uhland, by Longfelloio, . 162 

Saturday Afternoon, Willis, . . . 163 



Vm CONTENTS. 

Casabianca, Mrs. Hemans, 

The Bucket, Woodioorth, 

Boat Song, Scott, . . 

The Waterfall and Eglantine, . Wordsworth, 
Lamentation for the Death of Selin, Lockhart, 

The Orphan Boy, Thelwail, 

Hunting Song, Scott, . , 

Flowers, Leigh Hunt, 

Glenara, Campbell, 

The Sailor Boy's Dream, . . . Dimond, 

To the Grasshopper and Cricket, L. Hunt, 

Lord Ullen's Daughter, .... Campbell, 

To the Fringed Gentian, . . . Bryant, . . 

The Soldier's Dream, .... Campbell, . 

My Doves, Miss Barrett, 

Troubadour Song, Mrs. Hemans, 

Allen-a-Dale, Scott, . . 

Araby's Daughter, Moore, . . 

Human Frailty, Coicper, , . 

The Universal Prayer, .... Pope, . . 

Sir Patrick Spence, . . ^n old Scottish Ballad 

Lucy, Wordsworth, 

Brignal Banks, Scott, . . 

To a Mouse, Burns, . . 

To a Mountain Daisy, .... Burns, . . 

Hohen-Linden, Campbell, . 

The Graves of a Household, . . Mrs. Hemans, 

The Solitary Reaper, .... Wordsworth, 
Little Roland, from the German of 

Uhland, Mrs. Fallen, . 207 

The Adopted Child, Mrs. Hemans, . 212 

Psalm cxLViii, Sandys, . . . 214 

Peace of Mind, Old Eng. Poetry, 215 

An Elegy, written in a Country 

Churchyard, Gray, • • • 218 



CONTENTS. IX 

Ye Mariners of England, . . . Camjjhell, . . 223 
On Mungo Park's finding a Tuft 

of Green Moss in the African 

Desert, Edin. Ch. Herald, 224 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, . Mrs. Hemans, . 227 

A Child's first Impression of a Star, Willis, . ■ . 228 

Lochinvar, Scott, . . . 221) 

The Seasons, Mrs. Barhauld, 231 

To a Child during Sickness, . . Huiit, . . . 233 

The Star of Bethlehem, . . . . H.K.White, . 235 

The Dirge in Cymbeline, . . . Collins, . . . 236 

From the German of Uhland, 237 

Each Thing is hurt of itself, . . Old Evg. Poetry, 238 

The King of the Crocodiles, . . Soulhetj, . . . 233 

Burial of Sir John Moore, . . . Wolfe, ... 241 

The Summer Evening, .... Clare, . . . 242 

The Traveller's Return, . . . Southcij, . . 244 
Adoration of the Deity in the midst 

of His Works, Moore, . . . 245 

Charade, Praed, . . . 246 

Youth and Age, Southey, . . . 247 

Winter, Btums, ... 248 

To the Sky-Lark, 249 

Launching into Eternity, . . . Watts, . . . 250 

On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil, Mrs. Hemans, , 251 

The May Queen, Tennyson, . . 252 

New Year's Eve Tennyson, . . 255 

She was a Phantom of Delight, . Wordsicorth, . 258 

The Lost Pleiad Mrs. Hemans, . 259 

The Pauper's Death-Bed, . . . Mrs. Southey, . 260 

Coronach, Scott, .... 261 

An Invitation to Praise God, . . Watts, . . . 262 

To the Evening Wind, .... Bryant, . . . 263 
The Erl King, from the German 

of Goethe, 264 



CONTENTS. 



Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, 

Avarice, 

The Trumpet, 

Farewell to the Muse, .... 

True Riches, 

The Moss Rose, 

To the Morning Star, .... 

On Time, 

A Monarch's Death-Bed, . . . 

Virtue, 

Hymn of the Cherokee Indian, . 

To a Sky-Lark, 

The Evening Rainbow, .... 

Book of the World, 

To the Bramble Flower, . . . 
Lines Written in a Highland Glen, 

The Sky-Lark, 

To Daffodils, 

Song of the Silent Land. Trans- 
lated from the German of Salis, 
The Meeting of the Waters, . . 

The Hermit, 

Ode, 

To Our Eldest Heir, 

The Husbandman, 

To an Early Primrose, .... 
O Thou Who Dry'st, .... 

Hellvellyn, 

The Reaper and the Flowers, . , 
The Flowers of the Forest, . . 
The Tragedy of the Lac De Gaube, 

Autumn Musings, 

Time, 

To Blossoms, 

Remembrance, 



Burns, 
Herbert, . 
Mrs. Hemans, 
Scott, . . 
Watts, . 



Carey, 



Mrs. Hemans, 
Herbert, . 
Mc Lellan, 
WordsiDorth 
Southey, . 
Drummond, 
Elliott, . 
Wilson, . 
Hogg, 
Her rick, . 



Longfellotc, 
Moore, . . . 
Beattie, . , 
Collins, . . 
Mrs. Coleridge, 
Sterling, . . 
H. K. White, . 
Moore, . , . 
Scott, .... 
Longfellow, 
Mrs. Cockburne, 
Milnes, . . . 
Burns, . 
Scott, . . . 
Herrick, 
Southey, . . . 



266 
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CONTENTS. 



XI 



Burns, 



JVastell, . 
Milncs, . 
Longfclloio, 
From Festus, 
Montgoviery, 
Pracd, 
Cowley, . 
Tennyson, . 
Milnes, . . 
Bryant, . 



Sensibility, 

Song of the Stars to the Earth, 

^ from the German of Stolberg, 

On the Shortness of Human Life, 

Love, 

Burial of the Minnisink, . . . 

Heaven, 

Arnold Winkelried, 

A Charade, . ■ 

On Myself, 

The Grasshopper, 

A Grecian Anecdote, .... 
The Death of the Flowers, . . . 

The Song of the Brave Man, 

The Coral Grove, Percival, 

A Happy Life, Sir H. Wotton, 

Virtue, Old Eng. Poetr 

Knowledge and Wisdom, . . . Cowpcr, . 

Good Temper, Miss H. More, 

Constancy, Herbert, 

Times Go By Turns, .... Southwell 

To Sorrow, Milnes, 

Huniilibus Dat Gratiam, . . . Peacham, 
To a Daughter on her Birth-Day, Byron, . 
On the Death of a Friend, . . . Milnes, . 
To a Virtuous Young Lady, . Milton, , 

Twenty-Second Sunday After 

Trinity, Kehle, 

The Beggar, J. R. Lowell 

Ode to Duty, Wordsworth 

Familiar Love, Milnes, . 

Death's Final Conquest, . . . Shirley, . 
The Widow to her Hour-Glass, . Bloomjicld, 
Morning, ... .... Cunningham 

Hymn to Diana, Jonson, . ■ 



. 304 

. 305 

. 307 

. 308 

. 308 

. 310 

. 311 

. 312 

. 314 

. 315 

. 316 

. 318 

. 320 

. 323 

324 

y, 325 

. 326 

. 326 

. 327 

. 328 

. 329 

. 330 

. 331 

. 332 

334 

, 335 

. 337 

, 338 

340 

, 341 

342 

343 

344 



CONTENTS. 



The Men of Old, 

The Worth of Hours, . . . . 
Abou Ben Adhein and the Angel, 

The Violet Girl, 

From Eleonora, 

The Deserted House, . . . . 

A Psalm of Life, 

Bermudas, 

Twenty-Fourth Sunday After 

Trinity, 

A Sonnet, 

Experience, 

Sonnet, 

From the German of Ruckert, 



Milncs, 

Milnes, 

Hunt, 

Milnes, 

Drydcn 

Tennyson, 

Longfellow, 

Marvcll, 

Keble, . . 
Wordsworth, 
Jane Taylor, 
J. R. Lowell, 

Milncs, . . 



345 

347 
348 
349 
350 
351 
352 
353 

355 
356 
357 
358 
359 



POETRY 



HOME AND SCHOOL 



THE BEGGAR MAN — Miss Lamh. 

Abject, stooping, old, and wan, 
See yon wretched beggar man ; 
Once a father's hopeful heir, 
Once a mother's tender care, 
When too young to understand, 
He but scorched his little hand, 
By the candle's flaming light 
Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright, 
Clasping fond her darling round, 
A thousand kisses healed the wound. 
Now abject, stooping, old and wan. 
No mother tends the beggar man. 

Then nought too good for him to wear, 
With cherub face and flaxen hair, 
In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed. 
Cap of lace, with rose to aid, 
Milk white hat with feather blue, 
Shoes of red, and coral too. 
With silver bells to please his ear. 
And charm the frequent ready tear. 
Now abject, stooping, old and wan, 
Neglected is the beggar man. 
2 



14 

See the boy advance in age, 
And learning spreads her useful page ; 
In vain ! for giddy pleasure calls, 
And shows the marbles, tops, and balls. 
What's learning to the charms of play? 
The indulgent tutor must give way. 
A heedless wilful dunce and wild, 
The parents' fondness spoil'd the child ; 
The youth in vagrant courses ran ; 
Now abject, stooping, old and wan. 
Their fondling is the beggar man. 



LULLABY ON AN INFANT CHIEF— JF. Scott. 

O Hush thee, ray baby, thy sire was a knight, — 

Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright ; 

The woods and the glens, from the towers which 

we see. 
They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee. 

O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, 
It calls but the wardens that guard thy repose ; 
Their bows would be bended, their blades would 

be red, 
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. 

O hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come, 
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and 

drum ; 
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you 

may, 
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with 

day. 



15 



THE REAPER'S CHILD.— Jlfw5 Lamb. 

If you go to the field where the reapers now bind 
The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little lass, 

Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find, 
Left alone by its mother upon the low grass. 

While the mother is reaping the infant is sleeping} 
Not the basket that holds the provision is less 

By the hard working reaper, than this little sleeper, 
Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press. 

Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries, 
Which its hard working mother afar off will hear ; 

She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling, 
And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear. 

When you were as young as this field nursed daughter, 
You were fed in the house and brought up on the 
knee ; 

So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her 
Whole time well bestowed in nursing of thee. 



THE HARPER Campbell. 

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was 

nigh, 
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, 
No harp like my own could so cheerily play. 
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. 



16 

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, 
She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) 
Oh ! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away, 
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. 

Poor dog ! he was faithful and kind, to be sure. 
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor, 
When the sour looking folks sent me heartless away, 
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. 

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, 
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old. 
How snngly we slept in my old coat of gray. 
And he licked me for kindness, my poor dog Tray. 

Though my wallet Avas scant, I remembered his case, 
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face ; 
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day. 
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. 

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken and blind? 
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? 
To my sweet native village, so far, far away, 
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. 



A CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE— jifrs. Gilman. 

Mother, kind mother, the winds are at play, 
Prithee, let me be idle to-day ; 
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie 
Languidly under the bright blue sky. 



17 



See, how slowly the streamlet glides, 
Look, how the violet roguishly hides. 
Even the butterfly rests on the rose, 
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. 

Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun, 
As the flies go about him one by one, 
And pussy sits near, with a sleepy grace. 
Without ever thinking of washing her face. 

There flies a bird to a neighboring tree, 
But very lazily flieth he, 
And he sits and twitters a gentle note 
And scarcely ruffles his little throat. 

You bid me be busy ; but, mother, hear 
How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near, 
And the soft west wind so light in its play, 
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. 

I wish, oh ! I wish, I was yonder cloud, 
That sails about with its misty shroud, 
Books and work, I no more should see. 
And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee. 



FEIGNED COURAGE— M55 Lamb. 

Horatio, of ideal courage vain, 
Was flourishing in air his father's cane, 
And, as the fumes of valor swell'd his pate, 
Now thought himself this hero, and now that; 
" And now," he cried, " I will Achilles be; 
My sword I brandish ; see the Trojans flee : 
2* 



^ 



18 

Now I'll be Hector, when his angry blade 

A lane through heaps of slaughtered Grecians 

made ! 
And now, by deeds still braver I'll evince, 
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince. — 
^Give way ye coward French:" — as thus bespoke, 
And aimerl in fancy a suflicient stroke 
To fix the fate of Cressy or Poictiers ; 
(The muse relates the hero's fate with tears) 
He struck his milk-white hand against a nail, 
Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail. 
Ah ! where is now that boasted valor flown, 
That in the tented field so late was shown ! 
Achilles weeps, Great Hector hangs the head, 
And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed. 



THE THIRSTY FLY. 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly. 
Drink with me, and drink as I ; 
Freely welcome to my cup 
Could'st thou sip and sip it up, 
Make the most of life you may 
Life is short and wears away. 
Both alike are mine and thine 
Hastening quick to thy decline ; 
Thine's a summer, mine no more, 
Though repeated to three score, 
Three-score summers when they're gone. 
Will appear as short as one. 



19 



GOING INTO BREECHES— Mss Lamb. 

Joy to Philip, he this day 

Has his long coats cast away, 

And (the childish season gone) 

Puts the manly breeches on. 

Officer on gay parade, 

Red coat in his first cockade, 

Bridegroom in his wedding trim, 

Birth-day beau surpassing him, 

Never did with conscious gait 

Strut about in half the state, 

Or the pride (yet i'lee from sin) 

Of my little mannikin ; 

Never was there pride or bliss, 

Half so rational as his. 

Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em — 

Philip's limbs have got their freedom — 

He can run, or he can ride. 

And do twenty things beside, 

Which his petticoats forbad ; 

Is he not a happy lad ? 

Nov/ he's under other banners. 

He must leave his former manners ; 

Bid adieu to female games, 

And forget their very names. 

Puss in corners, hide and seek. 

Sports for girls and punies weak ! 

Baste the bear he now may play at, 

Leap-frog, foot ball, sport away at. 

Show his skill and strength at cricket, 

Mark his distance, pitch his wicket, 

Run about in winter's snow 

Till his cheeks and fingers glow, 



20 

Climb a tree or scale a wall, 
Without any fear to fail. 
If he get a hurt or bruise, 
To complain he must refuse. 
Though tlie anguish and the smart 
Go unto his little heart, 
He must have his courage ready. 
Keep his voice and visage steady, 
Brace his eye-balls stiff as drum, 
That a tear may never come, 
And his grief must only speak 
From the color in his cheek. 
This and more he must endure, 
Hero he in miniature ! 
This and more must now be done, 
Now the breeches are put on. 



LADY MOON— Milnes. 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 

Over the sea. 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? 

All who love me. 
Are you not tired with rolling, and never 

Resting to sleep ? 
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever 

Wishing to weep? 
Ask me not this, little child, if you love me. 

You are too bold. 
I must obey my dear father above me, 

And do as I'm told. 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 

Over the sea. 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? 

All who love me. 



21 



THE ORPHAN BROTHER.— Jt/j55 Lamb. 

O hush, my little baby brother ; 

Sleep, my love, upon my knee. 
What though, dear child, we've lost our mother, 

That can never trouble thee. 

You are but ten weeks old to-morrow ; 

What can you know of our loss? 
The house is full enough of sorrow, 

Little baby don't be cross. 

Peace, cry not so, my dearest love ; 

Hush, my baby bird, lie still — 
He's quiet now, he does not move, 

Fast asleep is little Will. 

My only solace, only joy, 

Since the sad day I lost my mother, 
Is nursing her own Willy boy, 

My little orphan brother. 



ULYSSES' TJOG.— Pope. 

When wise Ulysses, from his native coast 
Long kept by wars, and long by tempests tost, 
Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone. 
To all his friends, and e'en his queen, unknown ; 
Changed as he was with age, and toils, and cares, 
Furrow'd his reverend face, and white his hairs ; 
In his own palace forced to ask his bread, 
Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed, 
Forgot of all his own domestic crew j 



22 

The faithful dog alone his master knew ; 
Unfed, unhous'd, neglected, on the clay, 
Like an old servant, now cashiered, he lay. 
And, though e'en then expiring on the plain, 
Touched with resentment of ungrateful man, 
And longing to behold his ancient lord again. 
Him when he saw — he rose, and crawled to meet, 
'Twas all he could, and fawned, and kissed his feet, 
Seized with dumb joy ; then, falling by his side, 
Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died. 



THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.— Southey. 

And wherefore do the poor complain? 

The rich man asked of me — 
Come walk abroad with me, I said. 

And I will answer thee. 

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets 

Were cheerless to behold. 
And we were wrapt and coated well. 

And yet we were a-cold. 

We met an old bare-headed man, 
His locks were few and white ; 

I asked him what he did abroad 
In that cold winter's night ; 

'Twas bitter keen, indeed, he said, 

But at home, no fire had he. 
And therefore he had come abroad, 

To ask for charity. 



23 

We met a young bare-footed child, 
And she begged loud and bold ; 

I asked her what she did abroad 
When the wind it blew so cold ; 

She said her father was at home, 

And he lay sick a-bed ; 
And therefore was it she was sent 

Abroad to beg for bread. 

We saw a woman sitting down 

Upon a stone to rest, 
She had a baby at her back 

And another at her breast ; 

I asked her why she loitered there, 
When the night wind was so chill ; 

She turned her head and bade the child, 
That screamed behind, be still. 

She told us that her husband served, 

A soldier, far away, 
And therefore to her parish she 

Was begging back her way. 

I turned me to the rich man then, 

For silently stood he — 
You asked me why the poor complain. 

And these have answered thee. 



24 



GOOD TEMPER.— Miss Lamb. 

In whatsoever place resides 

Good Temper, she o'er all presides ; 

The most obdurate heart she guides. 

Even anger yields unto her power, 
And sullen spite forgets to lower, 
Or reconciled weeps a shower ; 

Reserve she softens into Ease, 
Makes Fretfulness leave off to tease, 
She Waywardness itself can please. 

Her handmaids they are not a few ; 

Sincerity that's ever true, 

And prompt Obedience always new, 

Urbanity that ever smiles, 

And Frankness that ne'er useth wiles, 

And Friendliness that ne'er beguiles, 

And Firmness that is always ready 

To make young good resolves more steady, 

The only safeguard of the giddy ; 

And blushing Modesty, and sweet 

Humility in fashion neat ; 

Yet still her train is incomplete. 

Unless meek Piety attend 

Good Temper as her surest friend. 

Abiding with her to the end. 



25 



CLEANLINESS— j^fcs Lamh. 

Come my little Robert near — 
Fie ! what filthy hands are here — • 
Who that e'er could understand 
The rare structure of a hand, 
With its branching fingers fine, 
Work itself of hands divine, 
Strong yet delicately knit, 
For ten thousand uses fit, 
Overlaid with so clear skin 
You may see the blood within, 
And the curious palm disposed 
In such lines, some have supposed 
You may read the fortunes there 
By the figures that appear, — 
Who this hand would choose to cover 
With a crust of dirt all over. 
Till it looked in hue and shape 
Like the forefoot of an ape? 
Man or boy that works or plays 
In the fields or the highways. 
May, without offence or hurt. 
From the soil contract a dirt, 
Which the next clear spring or river 
Washes out and out forever — 
But to cherish stains impure, 
Soil deliberate to endure. 
On the skin to fix a stain 
Till it works into the grain, 
Argues a degenerate mind. 
Sordid, slothful, ill inclined. 
Wanting in that self-respect 
Which does virtue best protect. 
3 



26 

All endearing cleanliness, 
Virtue next to godliness, 
Easiest, cheapest, needfulest duty, 
To the body health and beauty, 
Who that's human would refuse it, 
When a little water does it ? 



THE BLIND BOY — Colley Cibber. 

O I say what is that thing called light, 

Which I must ne'er enjoy ? 

What are the blessings of thy sight? 

tell your poor blind boy ! 

You talk of wondrous things you see^ 
You say the sun shines bright ; 

1 feel him warm, but how can he 
Or make it day or night 1 

My day or night myself I make. 
Whene'er I sleep or play ,• 
And could I ever keep awake 
With me 'twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 
You mourn my hapless woe ; 
But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have, 
My cheer of mind destroy, 
Whil'st thus I sing, I am a king. 
Although a poor blind boy. 



27 



THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.— Wordsworth. 

The days are cold, the nights are long, 
The north wind sings a dolefnl song ; 
Then hush again upon my breast ; 
All merry things are now at rest. 

Save thee, my pretty babe ! 

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, 
The crickets long have ceased their mirth, 
There's nothing stirring in the house, 
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse, 
Then why so busy thou 1 

Nay ! start not at that sparkling light ; 
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright, 
On the window-pane be-dropped with rain ; 
Then little darling! sleep again. 

And wake when it is day. 



THE LAME BROTHER— jtfzss Lamb. 

My parents sleep both in one grave ; 

My only friend's a brother, 
The dearest things upon the earth 

We are to one another, 

A fine stout boy T knew him once, 
With active form and limb ; 

Whene'er he leaped, or jumped, or ran, 
Oh I was proud of him I 



28 

He leaped too far, he got a hurt, 

He now does limping go ; 
When I think on his active days, 

My heart is full of woe. 

He leans on me, when we to school 

Do every morning walk ; 
I cheer him on his weary way, 

He loves to hear my talk. 

The theme of which, is mostly this. 
What things he once could do ; 

He listens pleas'd — then sadly says, 
" Sister I lean on you !" 

Then I reply, " Indeed you're not 
Scarce any weight at all, — 

And let us now still younger years 
To memory recal. 

Led by your little elder hand, 

I learned to walk alone ; 
Careful you used to be of me, 

My little brother John. 

How often, when my young feet tired, 
You've carried me a mile — 

And still together we can sit. 
And rest a little while. 

For our kind master never minds. 

If we're the very last ; 
He bids us never tire ourselves 

With walking on too fast." 



29 



A BALLAD, 
Translated from Herder, by Mary Howitt. 

Among green pleasant meadows, 

All in a grove so wild, 
Was set a marble image 

Of the Virgin and the child. 

Here oft, on summer evenings, 
A lonely boy would rove, 

To play beside the image 
That sanctified the grove. 

Oft sate his mother by him. 
Among the shadows dim, 

And told how the Lord Jesus 
Was once a child like him. 

" And now from highest heaven 
He doth look down each day, 

And sees whate'er thou doest, 
And hears what thou dost say 1" 

Thus spoke his tender mother ; 

And on an evening bright, 
When the red round sun descended 

'Mid clouds of crimson light. 

Again the boy was playing, 

And earnestly said he, 
" Oh beautiful child Jesus, 

Come down and play with me ! 

3* 



30 

*' I will find thee flowers the fairest, 
And weave for thee a crown ; 

I will get thee ripe, red strawberries, 
If thou wilt but come down ! 

" Oh Holy, Holy mother, 

Put him down from off thy knee ; 
For in these silent meadows 

There are none to play with me !" 

Thus spoke the boy so lonely, 
The while his mother heard. 

But on his prayer she pondered. 
And spoke to him no word. 

That self-same night she dreamed 

A lovely dream of joy ; 
She thought she saw young Jesus 

There, playing with the boy. 

" And for the fruits and flowers 
Which thou hast brought to rae. 

Rich blessing shall be given 
A thousand fold to thee ! 

" For in the fields of heaven 

Thou shalt roam with me at will. 

And of bright fruits celestial, 
Shalt have, dear child, thy fill !" 

Thus tenderly and kindly 
The fair child Jesus spoke ; 

And full of careful musings. 
The anxious mother woke. 



31 

And thus it was accomplished 
In a short month and a day, 

The lonely boy, so gentle, 
Upon his death-bed lay. 

And thus he spoke in dying; 

" Oh mother dear, I see 
That beautiful child Jesus 

A-coming down to me ! 

And in his hand he beareth 

Bright flowers as white as snow. 

And red and juicy strawberries, — 
Dear mother, let me go 1" 

He died — but that fond mother 
Her sorrow did restrain, 

For she knew he was with Jesus, 
And she asked him not again ! 



THE BROKEN T)OLh.—Miss Lamb. 

An infant is a selfish sprite ; 

But what of that ? the sweet delight 

Which from participation springs. 

Is quite unknown to these young things. 

We elder children then will smile 

At our dear litlle John awhile, 

And bear with him, until he see 

There is a sweet felicity 

In pleasing more than only one. 

Dear little craving selfish John. 



32 

He laughs, and thinks it a fine joke, 
That he our new wax doll has broke. 
Anger will never teach him better ; 
We will the spirit and the letter 
Of courtesy to him display, 
By taking in a friendly way 
These baby frolics, till he learn 
True sport from mischief to discern. 

Reproof a parent's province is ; 
A sister's discipline is this, 
By studied kindness to effect 
A little brother's young respect. 
What is a doll ? a fragile toy ; 
What is its loss ? if the dear boy, 
Who half perceives he has done amiss, 
Retain impression of the kiss 
That followed instant on his cheek ; 
If the kind loving words we speak 
Of" Never mind it," " We forgive," 
If these in his short memory live, 
Only perchance for half a day — 
Who minds a doll — if that should lay 
The first impression in his mind, 
That sisters are to brothers kind ? 
For thus the broken doll may prove 
Foundation to fraternal love. 



BLINDNESS Miss Laml. 

In a stage-coach where late I chanc'd to be, 
A little quiet girl my notice caught; 

I saw she look'd at nothing by the way. 

Her mind seem'd busy on some childish thought. 



33 



I with an old man's courtesy addressed 

The child, and call'd her pretty dark eye'd maid, 

And bid her turn tliose pretty eyes and see 

The wide extended prospect. — " Sir," she said, 

" I cannot see the prospect, I am blind." 
Never did tongue of child utter a sound 

So mournful, as her words fell on my ear. 
Her mother then related how she found 

Her child was sightless. On a fine bright day 
She saw her lay her needle work aside, 

And, as on such occasions mothers will, 
For leaving off her work began to chide. 

" I'll do it when 'tis day-light, if you please ; 

I cannot work, mamma, now it is night." 
The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke, 

And yet her eyes receiv'd no ray of light. 



A NEGRO'S SONG, 

From Park's Travels in Africa. Versified by tlie Ducbess of 
Devonshire. 



The loud wind roared, the rain fell fast, 
The white man yielded to the blast; 
He sat him down beneath the tree. 
For weary, faint, and sad was he ; 
And, ah ! no wife, or mother's care, 
For him the milk or corn prepare. 

CHORUS. 

The white man shall our pity share ; 
Alas ! no wife, or mother's care, 
For him the milk or corn prepare. 



34 

The storm is o'er, the tempest past, 
And Mercy's voice has hushed the blast. 
The wind is heard in whispers low ; 
The white man far away must go ; 
But ever in his heart will bear 
Remembrance of the Negro's care. 

CHOKUS. 

Go, white man, go ; but with thee bear 
The Negro's wish, the Negro's prayer, 
Remembrance of the Negro's care. 



MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.— Mary Howitt. 

A STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 

" Arise, my maiden, Mabel," 

The mother said ; " arise, 
For the golden sun of midsummer 

Is shining in the skies. 

"Arise, my little maiden, 

For thou must speed away, 
To wait upon thy grandmother 

This live-long summer day. 

" And thou must carry with thee 

This wheaten cake so fine ; 
This new made pat of butter ; 

This little flask of wine. 

" And tell the dear old body, 

This day I cannot come, 
For the good-man went out yester-morn. 

And he is not come home. 



35 

«' And more than this, poor Amy 

Upon my knee doth lie ; 
,1 fear me, with this fever-pain 

The little child will die 1 

" And thou can'st help thy grandmother ; 

The table thou can'st spread ; 
Canst feed the little dog and bird, 

And thou canst make her bed. 

" And thou canst fetch the water 

From the lady-well hard by ; 
And thou canst gather from the wood 

The fagots brown and dry. 

" Canst go down to the lonesome glen, 

To milk the mother-ewe ; 
This is the work, my Mabel, 

That thou wilt have to do. 

" But listen now, my Mabel, 

This is Midsummer-day, 
When all the fairy people 

From elf-land come away. 

" And when thou art in the lonesome glen, 

Keep by the running burn, 
And do not pluck the strawberry-flower, 

Nor break the lady-fern. 

" But think not of the fairy-folk. 

Lest mischief should befall ; 
Think only of poor Amy, 

And how thou lov'st us all. 



36 

" Yet keep good heart, my Mabel, 

If thou the fairies see, 
And give them kindly answer 

If they should speak to thee. 

*' And when into the fir-wood 
Thou go'st for fagots brown. 

Do not, like idle children. 
Go wandering up and down. 

" But fill thy little apron. 

My child, with earnest speed ; 

And that thou break no living bough 
Within the wood, take heed. 

" For they are spiteful brownies 

Who in the wood abide. 
So be thou careful of this thing. 

Lest evil should betide. 

" But think not, little Mabel, 
Whilst thou art in the wood. 

Of dwarfish, wilful brownies. 
But of the Father good. 

" And when thou goest to the spring 
To fetch the water thence. 

Do not disturb the little stream, 
Lest this should give offence. 

"For the queen of all the fairies, 
She loves that water bright ; 

I've seen her drinking there myself 
On many a summer night. 



37 

" But she's a gracious lady, 
And her thou need'st not fear ; 

Only disturb thou not the stream, 
Nor spill the water clear !" 

" Now all this I will heed, mother, 

Will no word disobey, 
And wait upon the grandmother 

This livelong summer-day !" 

Part II. 

Away tripped little Mabel, 

With the wheaten cake so fine ; 

With the new-made pat of butter, 
And the little flask of wine. 

And long before the sun was hot, 
And summer mist had cleared, 

Beside the good old grandmother 
The willing child appeared. 

And all her mother's message 
She told with right good-will. 

How that the father was away. 
And the little child was ill. 

And then she swept the hearth up clean, 

And then the table spread ; 
And next she fed the dog and bird ; 

And then she made the bed. 

" And go now," said the grandmother, 

" Ten paces down the dell. 
And bring in water for the day, — 

Thou know'st the lady-well !" 
4 



88 

The first time that good Mabel went, 

Nothing at all saw she, 
Except a bird, a sky blue bird, 

That sate upon a tree. 

The next time that good Mabel went, 

There sate a lady bright 
Beside the well — a lady small, 

All clothed in green and white. 

A curtsey low made Mabel, 

And then she stooped to fill. 
Her pitcher at the sparkling spring. 

But no drop did she spill. 

•* Thou art a handy maiden," 

The fairy lady said ; 
" Thou hast not spilt a drop, nor yet 

The fairy spring troubled ! 

" And for this thing which thou hast done, 

Yet may'st not understand, 
I give to thee a better gift 

Than houses or than land. 

" Thou shalt do well, whate'er thou dost, 

As thou hast done this day ; 
Shalt have the will and power to please, 

And shalt be loved alway." 

Thus having said, she passed from sight, 

And nought could Mabel see 
But the little bird, the sky blue bird. 

Upon the leafy tree. 



39 

" And now go," said the grandmother, 

" And fetch in fagots dry ; 
All in the neighboring fir-wood, 

Beneath the trees they lie." 

Away went kind, good Mabel, 

Into the fir-wood near, 
Where all the ground was dry and brown, 

And the grass grew thin and sere. 

She did not wander up and down, 

Nor yet a live branch pull, 
But steadily, of the fallen boughs 

She picked her apron full. 

And when the wild-wood brownies 

Came sliding to her mind, 
She drove them thence as she was told. 

With home-thoughts sweet and kind. 

But all that while the brownies 

Within the fir-wood still. 
They watched her how she picked the wood, 

And strove to do no ill. 

" And oh, but she is small and neat," 
Said one — " 'twere shame to spite 

A creature so demure and meek, 
A creature harmless quite !" 

*' Look only," said another, 

" At her little gown of blue ; 
At her kerchief pinned about her head, 

And at her little shoe 1" 



40 

" Oh, but she is a comely child," 

Said a third ; " and we will lay 
A good luck penny in her path, 

A boon for her this day, — 
Seeing she broke no living wood; 

No live thing did affray !" 

With that the smallest penny, 

Of the finest silver ore. 
Upon the dry and slippery path, 

Lay Mabel's feet before. 

With joy she picked the penny up, 

The fairy penny good ; 
And with her fagots dry and brown 

Went wandering from the wood. 

" Now she has that," said the brownies, 

Let flax be ever so dear, 
'Twill buy her clothes of the very best, 

For many and many a year 1" 

" And go now," said the grandmother, 

" Since falling is the dew, 
Go down unto the lonesome glen, 

And milk the mother-ewe !" 

All down into the lonesome glen, 

Through copses thick and wild, 
Through moist, rank grass, by trickling streams. 

Went on the willing child. 

And when she came to the lonesome glen. 

She kept beside the burn. 
And neither plucked the strawberry-flower 

Nor broke the lady-fern. 



41 



And while she milked the mother ewe 

Within this lonesome glen, 
She wished that little Amy 
Were strong and well again. 

And soon as she had thought this thought, 

She heard a coming sound, 
As if a thousand fairy-folk 

Were gathering all around. 

And then she heard a little voice, 

Shrill as the midge's wing. 
That spake aloud, — " a human child 

Is here ; yet mark this thing — 

" The lady-fern is all unbroke, 
The strawberry-flower untaken ! 

What shall be done for her, who still 
From mischief can refrain?" 

" Give her a fairy cake !" said one, 
" Grant her a wish 1" said three ; 

" The latest wish that she hath wished," 
Said all, " whate'er it be !" 

Kind Mabel heard the words they spake. 

And from the lonesome glen. 
Unto the good old grandmother 

Went gladly back again. 

Thus happened it to Mabel 

On that Midsummer day. 
And these three fairy-blessings 

She took with her away. 
4* 



42 

'Tis good to make all duty sweet, 

To be alert and kind ; 
'Tis good, like little Mabel, 

To have a vvillinw mind. 



THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN. 

Methinks this world seems oddly made. 

And every thing amiss, 
A dull complaining atheist said, 
As stretched he lay beneath the shade, 

And instanced it in this : 

" Behold," quoth he, " that mighty thing, 

A pumpkin large and round, 
Is held but by a little string. 
Which upward cannot make it spring, 
Nor bear it from the ground, 

" While on this oak an acorn small. 
So disproportioned grows ; 

That whosoe'er surveys this all. 

This universal casual ball, 

Its ill contrivance knows. 



" My better judgment would have hung 

The pumpkin on the tree ; 
And left the acorn slightly strung, 
'Mong things that on the surface sprung. 
And weak and feeble be." 



43 

No more the caviller could say, 

No farther faults descry ; 
'For upwards gazing as he lay, 
An acorn loosened from its spray, 

Fell down upon his eye. 

The wounded part with tears ran o'er. 

As punished for the sin ; 
Fool ! had that bough a pumpkin bore, 
Thy whimsies would have worked no more, 

Nor skull have kept them in. 



THE PIN, NEEDLE AND SCISSORS.— Jtfrs. Fallen. 

'Tis true, although 'tis sad to say. 

Disputes are rising every day. 

You'd think, if no one did deny it, 

A little work-box might be quiet; 

But 'tis not so, for I did hear. 

Or else I dreamed it, 'tis so queer, 

A Pin and Needle in the cushion, 

Maintain the following discussion : 

The Needle, " extra fine, gold eyed," 

Was very sharp and full of pride. 

And thus, methought, she did begin: 

" You clums}', thick, short, ugly Pin, 

I wish you were not quite so near ; 

How could my mistress stick me here? 

She should have put me in my place, 

With my bright sisters in the case." 

" Would you were there 1" the Pin replied ; 

** 1 do not want you by my side. 

I'm rather short and thick, 'tis true; 



44 

Who'd be so long and thin as you 1 

I've got a head, though, of my own, 

That you had better let alone." 

" You make me laugh," the Needle cried ; 

*' That you've a head, can't be denied ; 

For 1/ou a very proper head, 

Without an eye and full of lead." 

" You are so cross and sharp and thin," 

Replied the poor insulted Pin, 

" I hardly dare a word to say, 

And wish indeed you were away. 

That golden eye in your poor head, 

Was only made to hold a thread ; 

All your fine airs are foolish fudge, 

For you are nothing but a drudge ; 

But I, in spite of your abuse, 

Am made for pleasure and for use. 

I fasten the bouquet and sash, 

And help the ladies make a dash ; 

I go abroad and gaily roam. 

While you are rusting here at home." 

" Stop 1" cried the Needle, " you're too much; 

You've brass enough to beat the Dutch : 

Do I not make the ladies' clothes. 

Ere I retire to my repose ? 

Then who, forsooth, the glory wins? 

Alas ! 'tis finery and pins. 

This is the world's unjust decree. 

But what is this vain world to me 1 

I'd rather live with my own kin. 

Than dance about like you, vain Pin. 

I'm taken care of every day : 

You're used awhile, then thrown away ; 

Or else you get all bent up double. 

And a snug crack for all your trouble." 

"True," said the Pin, " I am abused. 



I 



45 

And sometimes very roughly used ; 
I often get an ugly crook, 
,Or fall into a dirty nook ; 
But there I lie, and never mind it ; 
Who wants a pin is sure to find it. 
In time I am picked up, and then 
I lead a merry life again. 
You fuss so at a fall or hurt, 
And if you touch a little dirt, 
You keep up such an odious creaking. 
That where you are there is no speaking; 
And then your lacquey Emery's called. 
And he, poor thing, is pricked and mauled. 
Until your daintiness — Oh shocking ! 
Is fit for what ? — To mend a stocking 1" 
The Needle now began to speak — 
They might have quarreled for a week — 
But here the Scissors interposed, 
And thus the warm debate was closed : 
" You angry Needle ! foolish Pin 1 
How did this nonsense first begin ? 
You should have both been better taught, 
But I will cut the matter short. 
You both are wrong, and both are right, 
And both are very impolite. 
E'en in a work-box 'twill not do 
To talk of every thing that's true. 
All personal remarks avoid, 
For every one will be annoyed 
At hearing disagreeable truth ; 
Besides it shows you quite uncouth, 
And sadly wanting in good taste. 
But what advantages you waste ! 
Think, Pins and Needles, while you may, 
How much you hear in one short day ; 
No servants wait on lordly man, 



46 

Can hear one-half of what you can. 

'Tis not worth while to mince the matter; 

Nor men nor boys like girls can chatter. 

All now are learning, forward nioviiig, 

E'en Pins and Needles are improving ; 

And in this glorious, busy day 

All have some useful part to play. 

Go forth, ye Pins, and bring home news ! 

Ye Needles, in your cases muse ! 

And take me for your kind adviser, 

And only think of growing wiser ; 

Then, when you meet again, no doubt, 

Something you'll have to talk about. 

And need not get into a passion, 

And quarrel in this vulgar fashion. 

Less of yourselves you'll think, and more 

Of others, than you did before. 

You'll learn that in their own right sphere 

All things with dignity appear; 

And have, when in their proper place, 

Peculiar use, intrinsic grace." 

Rlethought the polished Scissors blushed 

To have said so much — and all was hushed. 



WE ARE SEVEN. 
A simple child 



That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death? 

I met a little cottage girl ; 
She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl, 
That clustered round her head. 



47 

She had a rustic woodland air, 
And she was wildly clad ; 
'Her eyes were fair and very fair, 
Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
How many may you be?" 
" How many ? Seven in all," she said, 
And wondering looked at me. 

" And where are they, I pray you tell V 
She answered, " Seven are we; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea." 

" Two of us in the church-yard lie. 
My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven — I pray you tell, 
Sweet maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the church-yard lie. 
Beneath the church-yard tree." 

" You run about my little maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the church-yard laid, 
Then ye are only five." 



48 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
The little maid replied, 

" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. 
And they are side by side. 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 
I sit and sing to them. 

" And often after sunset, Sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer. 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died, was little Jane ; 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her from her pain, 
And then she went away. 

♦* So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
And when the grass was dry. 
Together round the grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with snow. 

And I could run and slide, 

My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you then," said I, 
" If they two are in Heaven ?" 
The little maiden did reply, 
*' Oh ! master, we are seven." 



49 



" But they are dead, those two are dead I 
Their spirits are in Heaven." 
'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her will, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven." 



THE BEGGAR'S PETITION Sir John Morris. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, 

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your 
door, 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 

Oh 1 give relief, and Heaven will bless your store- 

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, 

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; 

And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek, 
Has been the channel to a flood of tears. 

Yon house, erected on the rising ground. 

With tempting aspect, drew me from my road; 

For plenty there a residence had found, 
And grandeur a magnificent abode. 

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! 

Here, as I craved a morsel of their bread, 
A pampered menial drove me from their door, 

To seek a shelter in an humble shed. 

Oh ! take me to your hospitable home. 

Keen blows the wind and piercing is the cold ! 

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb! 
For I am poor, and miserably old. 
5 



50 



Should I reveal the sources of my grief, 
If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, 

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, 
And tears of pity would not be repressed. 

Heaven sends misfortunes ; why should we repine? 

'Tis heaven has brought me to the state you see ; 
And your condition may be soon like mine, 

The child of sorrow and of misery. 

A little farm was my paternal lot ; 

Then like the lark I sprightly hailed the morn ; 
But, ah ! oppression forced me from my cot, 

My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, 

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your 
door ; 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; 

Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN.— Bwms. 

There were three kings into the East, 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough, and ploughed him down, 

Put clods upon his head. 
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 



51 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And showers began to fall, 
And Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surprised them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 
And he grew thick and strong, 

His head well armed with pointed spears, 
That no one should him wrong. 

The sober autumn entered mild, 
When he grew wan and pale, 

His bending joints and drooping head, 
Showed he began to fail. 

His color sickened more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart. 

Like a rogue for forgery. 

They laid him down upon his back. 
And cudgeled him full sore ; 

They hung him up before the storm. 
And turned him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 



62 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him further woe, 
And still, as signs of life appeared. 

They tossed him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame 

Tiie marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller used him worst of all. 

For he crushed him between two stones. 

And they have ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drunk it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 



THE GREAT GRANDFATHER.— Jtfm LamJ. 

Mother's grandfather lives still. 

His age is four-score years and ten ; 

He looks a monument of time, 
The agedest of aged men. 

Though years lie on him like a load, 
A happier man you will not see 

Than he, whenever he can get 

His great grandchildren on his knee. 

When we our parents have displeased, 
He stands between us as a screen, 

By him our good deeds in the sun, 
Our bad ones in the shade are seen. 



63 



His love's a line that's long drawn out, 

Yet lasteth firm unto the end j 
His heart is oak, yet unto us 

It like the gentlest reed can bend. 

A fighting soldier he has been — 

Yet by his manners you would guess, 

That he his whole long life had spent 
In scenes of country quietness. 

His talk is all of things long past, 
For modern facts no pleasure yield — 

Of the famed year of forty-five, 
Of William, and Culloden's field. 

The deeds of this eventful age, 

Which princes from their thrones have hurled, 
Can no more interest wake in him. 

Than stories of another world- 

When I his length of days revolve, 
How like a strong tree he hath stood, 

It brings into my mind almost 

Those patriarchs old before the flood. 



CHOOSING A NAME.— JtfiVs Laiiib. 

I have got a new-born sister ; 
I was nigh the first tliat kissed her 
When the nursing woman brought her 
To papa, his infant daughter. 
How |)apa's dear eyes did glisten ! 
She will shortly be to christen ; 
And papa has made the offer, 
I shall have the naming of her. 
5* 



54 

Now I wonder what would please her, 
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ; 
Ann and Mary, they're too common ; 
Joan 's too formal for a woman ; 
Jane 's a prettier name beside ; 
But we had a Jane that died. 
They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, 
That she was a little Quaker. 
Edith 's pretty, but that looks 
Better in old English books ; 
Ellen 's left off long ago ; 
Blanche is out of fashion now. 
None that 1 have named as yet, 
Are so good as Margaret. 
Emily is neat and fine ; 
What do you think of Caroline ? 
How I'm puzzled and perplext 
What to choose or think of next 1 
I am in a little fever 
Lest the name that I shall give her, 
Should disgrace her or defame her ! 
I will leave Papa to name her. 



THE WANDERING BOY.— H. K. White. 

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, 
And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; 
When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, 
Oh how hard is the lot of the wandering boy. 

The winter is cold, and I have no vest, 
And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast ; 
No father, no mother, no kindred have I, 
For I am a parentless, wandering boy. 



55 

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, 
A mother, who granted each infant desire ; 
Our cottage, it stood in a wood embowered vale, 
Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale. 

But my father and mother were summoned away, 
And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey ; 
I fled from their rigor with many a sigh. 
And now I'm a poor little wandering boy. 

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, 
And no one will list to my innocent tale, 
I'll go to the grave, where my parents both lie. 
And death shall befriend the poor wandering boy. 



THE WIND IN A FROLIC— JVilliam Howitt. 

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, 
Saying, " Now for a frolic ! now for a leap ! 
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase ! 
I'll make a commotion in every place !" 
So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, 
Creaking the signs and scattering down 
Shutters, and wisking, with merciless squalls, 
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls. 
There never was heard a much lustier shout, 
As the apples and oranges tumbled about; 
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes 
Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize. 
Then away to the fields it went blustering and hum- 
ming. 
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming. 
It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows, 



56 

And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows, 
Till, offended at such a familiar salute, 
They all turned their backs and stood silently mute. 
So on it went, capering and playing its pranks ; 
Whistling with reeds on the broad river banks ; 
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, 
Or the traveller grave on the king's highway. 
It was not too nice to bustle the bags 
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags. 
'Twas so bold, that it feared not to play its joke 
With the doctor's wig, and the gentleman's cloak. 
Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, " Now, 
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow." 
And it made them bow without more ado. 
Or it cracked their great branches through and through. 
Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm,' 
Striking their inmates with sudden alarm ; 
And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm. 
There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their 

caps, 
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps ; 
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, 
And the hens crept to roost in in a terrified crowd ; 
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on 
Where the thatch from the roof, threaten'd soon to be 

gone. 
But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane, 
With a school-boy, who panted and struggled in vain. 
For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he 

stood 
With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud. 



57 



THE NORTHERN SEAS.— William Howitt. 

Up ! up ! let us a voyage take ; 

Why sit we here at ease? 
Find us a vessel tight and snug, 

Bound for the Northern Seas. 

I long to see the Northern Lights, 
With their rushing splendors fly ; 

Like living things with flaming wings, 
Wide o'er the wondrous sky, 

I long to see those icebergs vast. 
With heads all crowned with snow ; 

Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep, 
Two hundred fathoms low. 

I long to hear the thundering crash 

Of their terrific fall ; 
And the echoes from a thousand cliffs, 

Like lonely voices call. 

There shall we see the fierce White Bear ; 

The sleepy seals a-ground, 
And the spouting Whales that to and fro 

Sail with a dreary sound. 

There may we tread on depths of ice. 
That the hairy Mammoth hide ; 

Perfect, as when in times of old. 
The mighty creature died. 

And while the unsetting sun shines on 
Through the still heaven's deep blue, 

We'll traverse the azure waves, the herds 
Of the dread Sea-horse to view. 



58 



We'll pass the shores of solemn pine, 
Where Wolves and Black Bears prowl ; 

And away to the rocky isles of mist, 
To rouse the northern fowl. 

Up there shall start ten thousand wings 
With a rushing, whistling din ; 

Up shall the Auk and Fulmar start, — 
All but the fat Penguin. 

And there in the wastes of the silent sky, 

With the silent earth below, 
We shall see far off to his lonely rock, 

The lonely Eagle go. 

Then softly, softly will we tread 

By inland streams to see. 
Where the Pelican of the silent North, 

Sits there all silently. 



THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 

Now ponder well, you parents dear, 

The words which I shall write ; 
A doleful story you shall hear, 

In time brought forth to light ; 
A gentleman of good account 

In Norfolk lived of late, 
Whose wealth and riches did surmount 

Most men of his estate. 

Sore sick he was, and like to die. 
No help that he could have ; 

His wife by him as sick did lie. 
And both possessed one grave. 



59 

No love between these two was lost, 

Each was to other kind ; 
In love they lived, in love they died, 

And left two babes behind ; 

The one a fine and pretty boy, 

Not passing three years old ; 
Th' other a girl, more young than he, 

And rriade in beauty's mould. 
The father left his little son, 

As plainly doth appear, 
When he to perfect age should come, 

Three hundred pounds a year ; 

And to his little daughter Jane 

Five hundred pounds in gold, 
To be paid down on marriage day, 

Which might not be controlled ; 
But if the children chance to die 

Ere they to age should come. 
Their uncle should possess their wealth, 

For so the will did run. 

Now, brother, said the dying man, 

Look to my children dear; 
Be good unto my boy and girl, 

No friends else have I here. 
To God and you I do commend 

My children night and day , 
But little while, be sure, we have 

Within this world to stay. 

You must be father and mother both, 

And uncle, all in one ; 
God knows what will become of them 

When I am dead and gone. 



60 

With that bespake their mother dear : 

O brother kind, quoth she, 
You are the man must bring our babes 

To wealth or misery. 

And if you keep ihem carefully, 

Then God will you reward ; 
If otherwise you seem to deal, 

God will your deeds regard. 
With lips as cold as any stone. 

She kissed her children small ; 
God bless you both, my children dear ! 

With that the tears did fall. 

These speeches then their brother spoke 

To this sick couple there ; 
The keeping of your children dear, 

Sweet sister, do not fear ; 
God never prosper me nor mine, 

Nor naught else that I have, 
If I do wrong your children dear, 

When you are laid in grave. 

Their parents being dead and gone. 

The children home he takes. 
And bring them home unto his house, 

And much of them he makes. 
He had not kept these pretty babes 

A twelve-month and a day, 
When for their wealth he did devise 

To make them both away. 

He bargained with two ruffians rude, 

Which were of furious mood. 
That they should take the children young, 

And slay them in the wood. 



61 

He told his wife, and all he had, 

He did the children send 
To be brought up in fair London, 

With one that was his friend. 

Away then went these pretty babes, 

Rejoicing at that tide, 
Rejoicing with a merry mind. 

They should on cock-horse ride. 
They prate and prattle pleasantly, 

As they rode on their way, 
To those that should their butchers be. 

And work their lives decay. 

So that the pretty speech they had 

Made murderous hearts relent ; 
And they that undertook the deed, 

Full sore they did repent. 
Yet one of them, more hard of heart. 

Did vow to do his charge, 
Because the wretch that hired him 

Had paid him very large. 

The other would not agree thereto. 

So here they fell at strife ; 
With one another they did fight 

About the children's life ; 
And he that was of mildest mood 

Did slay the other there, 
Within an unfrequented wood ; 

While babes did quake for fear. 

He took the children by the hand. 
When tears stood in their eye ; 

And bade them come and go with him. 
And look they did not cry. 
6 



62 



And two long miles he led them on, 
While they for food complain ; 

Stay here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread, 
When I do come again. 

These pretty babes with hand in hand 

Went wandering up and down ; 
But never more they saw the man 

Approaching from the town. 
Their pretty lips with blackberries 

Were all besmeared and dyed, 
And when they saw the darksome night, 

They sat them down and cried. 

Thus wandered these two pretty babes, 

Till death did end their grief; 
In one another's arms they died, 

As babes wanting relief; 
No burial these pretty babes 

Of any man receives, 
Till Robin-red-breast painfully 

Did cover them with leaves. 

And now the heavy wrath of God 

Upon their uncle fell ; 
Yes, fearful fiends did haunt his house. 

His conscience felt a hell ; 
His barns were fired, his goods consumed. 

His lands were barren made, 
His cattle died within the field, 

And nothing with him staid. 

And in the voyage of Portugal, 

Two of his sons did die ; 
And, to conclude, himself was brought 

To extreme misery. 



63 

He pawned and mortgaged all his land 
Ere seven years came about, 

And now at length this wicked act 
Did by this means come out. 

The fellow that did take in hand 

These children for to kill, 
Was for a robbery judged to die, 

As was God's blessed will ; 
Who did confess the very truth, 

The which is here expressed ; 
Their uncle died, while he, for debt 

In prison long did rest. 

All you that be executors made, 

And overseers eke, 
Of children that be fatherless. 

And infants mild and meek, 
Take your example by this thing 

And yield to each his right ; 
Lest God, with such like misery, 

Your wicked minds requite. 



THE USE OF FLOWERS.— jl/fljy HowitL 

God might have bade the earth bring forth 

Enough for great and small, 
The oak tree and the cedar tree, 

Without a flower at all. 

We might have had enough, enough 

For every want of ours, 
For luxury, medicine, and toil, 

And yet have had no flowers. 



64 

The ore within the mountain mine 

Requireth none to grow ; 
Nor doth it need the lotus flower. 

To make the river flow. 

The clouds might give abundant rain ; 

The nightly dews might fall, 
And the herb that keepeth life in man, 

Might yet have drunk them all. 

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, 

All dyed with rainbow light, 
All fashioned with supremest grace. 

Up-springing day and night : — 

Springing in valleys green and low, 

And on the mountains high, 
And in the silent wilderness 

Where no man passes by ? 

Our outward life requires them not — 
Then wherefore had they birth ? — 

To minister delight to man, 
To beautify the earth ; 

To comfort man — to whisper hope, 

Whene'er his faith is dim, 
For whoso careth for the flowers. 

Will much more care for him. 



65 



TO A BVTTERFhY.— Wordsworth. 

Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 

A little longer stay in sight ! 

Much converse do I find in thee, 

Historian of my Infancy ! 

Float near me ; do not yet depart ! 

Dead times revive in thee ; 

Thou bringest, gay creature as thou art, 

A solemn image to my heart, 

My father's family ! 

Oh 1 pleasant, pleasant were the days, 

The time, when in our childish plays, 

My sister Emmeliiie and I 

Together chased the Butterfly ! 

A very hunter did I rush 

Upon the prey ; — with leaps and springs 

I followed on from brake to bush ; 

But she, God love her ! feared to brush 

The dust from off" its wings. 



TO MY LITTLE COUSIN WITH HER FIRST 
BONNET — Mrs. Southey. 

Fairies ! guard the baby's bonnet- 
Set a special watch upon it ; 
Elfin people ! to your care 
I commit it, fresh and fair ; 
Neat as neatness, white as snow — 
See ye make it over so. 
Watch and ward set all about, 
6* 



66 

Some within and some without ; 

Over it, with dainty hand, 

One her kirtle green expand ; 

One take post at every ring ; 

One at each unwrinkled string ; 

Two or three about the bow 

Vigilant concern bestow ; 

A score, at least, on either side, 

'Gainst evil accident provide — 

(Jolt or jar or over-lay ;) 

And so the precious charge convey 

Through all the dangers of the way. 

But when those are battled through, 

Fairies ! more remains to do ; 

Ye must gift, before ye go, 

The bonnet, and the babe also, — 

Gift it to protect her well. 

Fays ! from all malignant spell, 

Charms and seasons to defy, 

Blighting winds and evil eye ; 

And the bonny Babe ! on her 

All your choicest gifts confer ; — 

Just as much of wit and sense. 

As may be hers without pretence — 

Just as much of grace and beauty, 

As shall not interfere with duty — 

Just as much of sprighlliness. 

As may companion gentleness — 

Just as much of firmness, too. 

As with self-will hath nought to do — 

Just as much lioht-hearte(i cheer, 

As may be melted to a tear, 

By a word — a tone — a look — 

Pity's touch — or Love's rebuke — 

As much of frankness, sweetly free. 

As may consort with modesty — 



67 

As much of feeling, as will bear 
Of after life the wear and tear — 
As much of life — But, Fairies, there 
Ye vanish into thinnest air ; 
And with ye parts the playful vein 
That loved a light and trivial strain. 
Befits me better, Babe, for thee 
T' invoke Almighty agency — 
Almighty love — Almighty power 
To nurture up the human flower ; 
To cherish it with heavenly dew, 
Sustain with earthly blessings too; 
And when the ripe full time shall be. 
Engraft it on Eternity ! 



THE YOUNG LETTER WRITER. — Miss Lamb. 

Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend, 
With ease are written at the top ; 

When those two happy words are penned, 
A youthful writer oft will stop, 

And bite his pen, and lift his eyes, 

As if he thinks to find in air 
The wished for following words, or tries 

To fix his thoughts by fixed stare. 

But haply all in vain — the next 
Two words may be so long before 

They'll come, the writer, sore perplext, 
Gives in despair the matter o'erj 



68 

And when nnaturer age he sees 
With ready pen so swift inditing, 

With envy he beholds the ease 

Of long accustomed letter writing. 

Courage, young friend ; the time may be, 
When you attain matiirer age, 

Some, young as you are now, may see 
You with like ease glide down a page. 

Even then when you, to years a debtor. 
In varied phrase your meaning wrap, 

The welcom'st words in all your letter. 
May be those two kind ones at the top. 



ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.— Blake. 

Can I see another's woe. 
And not be in sorrow too ? 
Can I see another's grief. 
And not seek for kind relief? 



Can I see a falling tear, 
And not feel my sorrow's share ? 
Can a father see his child 
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd ? 

Can a mother sit and hear 
An infant groan, an infant fear? 
No 1 no ! never can it be 1 
Never, never can it be ! 



69 

And can He who smiles on all, 
Hear the wren with sorrows small. 
Hear the small birds' grief and care, 
' Hear the woes that infants bear, — 

And not sit beside the nest. 
Pouring pity in their breast? 
And not sit the table near, 
Weeping tear on infant's tear? 

And not sit both night and day, 
Weeping all our tears away ? 
Oh ! no ! never can it be ! 
Never, never can it be ! 

He doth give His joy to all ; 
He becomes an infant small ; 
He becomes a man of woe ; 
He doth feel the sorrow too. 

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 
And thy Maker is not nigh ; 
Think not thou canst weep a tear, 
And thy Maker is not near. 

Oh ! He gives to us His joy, 
That our griefs He may destroy ; 
Till our grief is fled and gone, 
He doth sit by us and moan. 



70 



THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.— Coicpcr. 

A nightingale, that all day long 
Had cheered the village with his song, 
Nor yet at eve his note suspended, 
Nor yet when even-tide was ended, 
Began to feel, as well he might. 
The keen demands of appetite ; 
When, looking eagerly around. 
He spied far off, upon the ground, 
A something shining in the dark, 
And knew the glow-worm by his spark ; 
So, stooping down from hawthorn top, 
He thought to put him in his crop ; 
The worm, aware of his intent. 
Harangued him thus, right eloquent ; 
" Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, 
" As much as I your minstrelsy, 
You would abhor to do me wrong 
As much as I to spoil your song ; 
For 'twas the self-same Power divine 
Taught you to sing, and me to shine, 
That you with music, I with light. 
Might beautify and cheer the night." 
The songster heard his short oration, 
And warbling out his approbation, 
Released him, as my story tells, 
And found a supper somewhere else. 
Hence jarring sectaries may learn 
Their real interest to discern ; 
That brother should not war with brother, 
And wrong and devour each other. 
But sing and shine by sweet consent. 
Till life's poor transient night is spent, 



71 

Respecting in each other's case, 
The gifts of nature and of grace. 

Those Christians best deserve the name 
Who studiously make peace their aim; 
Peace, both the duty and the prize 
Of him that creeps and him that flies. 



THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.— H F. Gould. 

" I am a Pebble ! and yield to none !" 
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone, 
" Nor Time nor Seasons can alter me ; 
I am abiding, while ages flee. 
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain 
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ; 
And the tender dew has sought to melt, 
Or touch my heart ; but it was not felt. 
There's none that can tell about my birth, 
For I'm as old as the big, round earth. 
The children of men arise, and pass 
Out of the world, like the blades of grass; 
And many a foot on ine has trod, 
That's gone from sight, and under the sod ! 
I am a Pebble 1 but who art thou, 
Rattling along from the restless bough?" 

The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, 
And lay for a moment abashed and mute ; 
She never before had been so near 
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; 
And she felt for a time at a loss to know 
How to answer a thinjr so coarse and low. 
But to give reproof of a nobler sort 



72 

Than the angry look or the keen retort, 

At length she said, in a gentle tone ; — 

*' Since it has happened that I am thrown 

From the lighter element, where I grew, 

Down to another so hard and new. 

And beside a personage so august. 

Abased I will cover my head with dust, 

And quickly retire from the sight of one 

Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, 

Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel, 

Has ever subdued or made to feel !" 

And soon in the earth she sunk away, 

From the comfortless spot where the Pebble Jay. 

But it was not long ere the soil was broke 
By the peering head of an infant oak ! 
And as it arose and its branches spread, 
The Pebble looked up, and wondering said : — 
" A modest Acorn ! never to tell 
What was enclosed in its simple shell ; 
That the pride of the forest was folded up 
In the narrow space of its little cup! 
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth. 
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth! 
And oh! how many will tread on me, 
To come and admire the beautiful tree, 
Whose head is towering toward the sky, 
Above such a worthless thing as I ! 
Useless and vain, a cumberer here, 
I have been idling from year to year. 
But never from this shall a vaunting word 
From the humbled Pebble again be heard, 
Till something without me or within, 
Shall show the purpose for which I've been !" 
The Pebble its vow could not forget. 
And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. 



73 



TO A CHILD DURING A STORM. 

What way does the wind come ? what way does 

he go 1 
He rides over the water and over the snow, 
Through wood, and through vale ; and o'er rocky 

height, 
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding 

flight ; 
He tosses about in every bare tree, 
As, if you look up, you plainly may see ; 
And how he will come, and whither he goes, 
There's never a scholar in England knows. 
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, 
And ring a sharp 'larum ; but if you should look, 
There's nothing. to see, but a cushion of snow. 
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk. 
And softer than if it were covered with silk. 
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock, 
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock ; 
Yet seek him — and what shall you find in the 

place — 
Nothing but silence and empty space ; 
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves. 
That he's left, for a bed to beggars or thieves. 
As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me 
You shall go to the orchard and then you will see 
That he has been there, and made a great rout, 
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about ; 
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright 

twig, 
That looked up at the sky so proud and big, 
All last summer, as well you know. 
Studded with apples, a beautiful show. 
7 



74 

Hark ! o'er the roof he makes a pause, 
And growls as if he would fix his claws 
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 
Drive them down, — like men in a battle — - 
But let him range round ; he does us no harm, 
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm ; 
Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines 

bright. 
And burns with a clear and steady light ; 
Books have to read ; but that half-stifled knell, 
Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. 
Come, now we'll to bed ! and when we are there, 
He may work his own will, and what shall we care ? 
He may knock at the door — we'll not let him in ; 
May drive at the windows — we'll laugh at his din ; 
Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; 
Here's a cozie warm house for Anna and me. 



mGHT.—BlaJce. 

The sun descending in the west, 
The evening star doth shine ; 
The birds are silent in their nest, 
And I must seek for mine. 
The moon like a flower. 
In heaven's high bower, 
With silent delight, 
Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green fields and hnppy groves, 
Where flocks have ta'en delight ; 
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move 
The feet of angels bright ; 



75 

Unseen they pour blessing, 
And joy without ceasing, 
On each bud and blossom. 
And each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless nest, 
Where birds are covered warm ; 
They visit caves of every beast, 
To keep them from all harm : 
If they see any weeping, 
That should have been sleeping, 
They pour sleep on their head. 
And sit down on their bed. 

When wolves and tigers howl for prey, 
They pitying stand and weep, 
Seeking to drive their thirst away, 
And keep them from the sheep; 
But if they rush dreadful, 
The angels, most heedful. 
Receive each mild spirit, 
New worlds to inherit. 



NEATNESS IN APPAREL — Mss Lamb. 

In your garb and outward clothing, 

A reserved plainness use ; 
By their neatness more distinguished, 

Than the brightness of their hues. 

All the colors in the rainbow 

Serve to spread the peacock's train ; 

Half the lustre of his feathers, 

Would turn twenty coxcombs vain. 



76 

Yet the swan, that swims in rivers, 
Pleases the judicious sight, 

Who, of brighter colors heedless, 
Trusts alone to simple white. 

Yet all other hues, compared 

With his whiteness, show amiss ; 

And the peacock's coat of colors, 
Like a foors coat looks by his. 



CHILDHOOD.— Sco«. 

Childhood ! happiest stage of life ! 
Free from care, and free from strife, 
Free from memory's ruthless reign, 
Fraught with scenes of former pain ; 
Free from fancy's cruel skill, 
Fabricating future ill ; 
Time, when all that meets the view, 
All can charm, for all is new ; 
How thy long lost hours I mourn. 
Never, never to return ! 

Then to toss the circling ball. 
Caught rebounding from the wall ; 
Then the mimic ship to guide 
Down the kennel's dirty tide ; 
Then the hoop's revolving pace. 
Through the dirty street to chase ; 
O what joy ! it once was mine ; 
Childhood ! matchless boon of thine ! 
How thy long lost hours 1 mourn. 
Never, never to return ! 



77 



RANGER'S GRAVE.— .1/rs. Southcij. 

He's dead and gone ! he's dead and gone ! 
And the lime tree branches wave, 
And the daisy blows, 
And the green grass grows, 
Upon his grave. 

He's dead and gone ! he's dead and gone ! 
And he sleeps by the flowering lime. 
Where he loved to lie, 
When the sun was high, 
In summer time. 

We've lai'd him there, where the blessed air 
Disports with the lovely light, 
And rainelh showers 
Of those sweet flowers 
So silver white ; 

Where the black bird sings, and the wild bee's 

wings 
Make music all day long, 
And the cricket at night 
(A dusky sprite !) 

Takes up the song. 

He loved to lie, where his wakeful eye 
Could keep me still in sight, 
Whence a word or a sign, 
Or a look of mine, 

Brought him like light. 
7* 



78 

Nor word, nor sign, nor look of mine, 
From under the lime tree bough, 
With bark and bound, 
And frolic round, 

Shall bring him now. 

But he taketh his rest, where he loved best, 
In the days of his life to be. 
And that place will not 
Be a common spot 
Of earth to me. 



LUCY GRAY.~Words2oortJi. 

Oft had I heard of Lucy Gray ; 

And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to meet at break of day 

The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew, 
She dwelt on a wild moor. 

The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door. 

You yet may spy the fawn at play. 
The hare upon the green. 

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 

"To night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go ; 

And take a lantern, child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 



79 

" That, father, will I gladly do ; 

'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
The minster clock has just struck two, 

And yonder is the moon." 

At this the father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band ; 

He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe; 

With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 

That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time ; 

She wandered up and down ; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb 

But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 

But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor, 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 

A furlong from their door. 

They wept, and turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet :" 

When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 



80 



Half breathless from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 

And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, 
And by the long slone-wall ; 

And then an open field they crossed ; 

The marks were still the same ; 
They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 

And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 

Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there were none ! 

Yet some maintain, that to this day 

She is a living child ; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 

Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along. 

And never looks behind : 
And sings a solitary song 

That whistles in the wind. 



CHRISTMAS TIMES.— Howard. 

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the 

house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there. 
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 



81 

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads, 
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap. 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap; 
when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
1 sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash, — 
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow 
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, — 
When, what to my wandering eyes should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer. 
With a little old driver so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name ; 
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer ! now, 

Vixen ! 
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blixen! 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, 
Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away, all !" 
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly. 
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky. 
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, 
The prancing and pawing of each tiny hoof; 
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ; 
A bundle of toys was flung on his back, 
And he looked like a pedler, just opening his pack. 
His eyes — how they twinkled ! his dimples how merry. 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 



82 

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow ; 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, 
And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself. 
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head. 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 
And filled all his stockings, — then turned with a jerk, 
And laying his finger aside of his nose. 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle ; 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
" Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!" 



THE PET l^AM-B.— JVordsicorth. 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; 
1 heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty creature, drink." 
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 
A snow white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side. 

No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone, 
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; 
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, 
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal. 

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, 
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with 

pleasure shook ; 
" Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such atone, 
That I almost received her heart into my own. 



83 

'Twas little Barbara Lethwaite, a child of beauty rare ! 
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. 
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away ; 
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps she did stay. 

Towards the lamb she looked ; and from that shady 

place 
I unobserved could see the workings of her face ; 
If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, 
Thus, thought I, to her lamb, that little maid might sing : 

"What ails thee, young one ? what? why pull so at 

thy cord ? 
Is it not well with thee ? well both for bed and board ? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 
Rest, little young one, rest ; what is't that aileth thee ? 

"What is it thou would'st seek? what is wanting to 

thy heart ? 
Thy limbs are they not strong ? and beautiful thou art. 
This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have no 

peers. 
And that green corn all day long is rustling in thy ears ! 

" If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen 

chain, 
This birch is standing by, its covert thou canst gain ; 
For rain and mountain storms— the like thou need'st 

not fear — 
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come 

here. 

" Rest, little young one, rest ; thou hast forgot the day. 
When my father found thee first in places far away ; 



84 

Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by 

none, 
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. 

" He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee 

home ; 
Oh blessed day for thee ! then whither wouldst thou 

roam ? 
A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did thee yean 
Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. 

"Thou knowest that twice a day I have brought thee 

in this can 
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with 

dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is, and new. 

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are 

now, 
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the 

plough ; 
My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is cold 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. 

"Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! 
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come 

there ; 
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play, 
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. 

"Here thou needest not dread the raven in the sky ; 
Night and day thou art safe — our cottage is hard by. 
Why bleat so after me ? why pull so at thy chain.' 
Sleep— and at break of day I will come to thee again." 



85 

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, 
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; 
Anjl it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, 
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. 

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song; 

" Nay," said I, " more than half to the damsel must be- 
long, 

For she looked with such a look, and she spoke with 
such a tone. 

That I almost received her heart into my own." 



THE LITTLE BLACK BOY— Blake. 

My mother bore me in the southern wild, 
And I am black, but oh ! my soul is white; 
White as an angel is the English child, 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

My mother taught me underneath a tree, 
And sitting down before the heat of day, 
She took me on her lap, and kissed me, 
And pointing to the east, began to say : — 

" Look on the rising sun, — there God does live. 
And gives His light, and gives His heat away ; 
And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men re- 
ceive. 
Comfort in morning, joy in the noon-day. 

" And we are put on earth a little space, 
That we may learn to bear the beams of love ; 
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face. 
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 
8 



86 

" For when our souls have learnt the heat to bear, 
The clouds will vanish, we shall hear His voice, 
Saying, ' Come from the grove, my love and care. 
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " 

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me ; 

And thus say I to little English boy, — 

When I from black, and he from white cloud free, 

And round the tent of God like lambs we joy ; 

I'll shade him from the heat 'till he can bear 
To lean with joy upon our Father's knee ; 
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, 
And be like him. and he will then love me. 



EXILE OF ERIN Campbell. 

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 
For his country he sighed, when at twilight re- 
pairing, 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion, 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
He sung the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 

"Sad, sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken 

stranger, 
" The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee j 
But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 
A home and a country remain not to me. 



87 

Never again, in the green sunny bowers, 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the svreet 

hours, 
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, 
And strike to tlie numbers of Erin go bragh. 

Erin my country — though sad and forsaken. 

In dreams I revisit thy sea beaten shore ; 

But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, 

And sigii for the friends who can meet me no more. 

Oh, cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase 

me? 
Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
They died to defend me — or live to deplore. 

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? 
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ? 
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood 1 
And where is the bosom friend dearer than all ? 
Oh, my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, 
Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure ? 
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure, 
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; 
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing, 
Land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh ! 
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion. 
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! 
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with de- 
votion, 
Erin mavourneen, Erin go bragh ! 



88 



THE SPARTAN BOY— Miss Lamh. 

When I the memory repeat 

Of the heroic actions great, 

Which in contempt of pain and death 

Were done, by men who drew their breath 

In ages past, I find no deed 

That can in fortitude exceed 

The noble boy, in Sparta bred, 

Who in the temple ministered. 

By the sacrifice he stands, 

The lighted incense in his hands, 

Through the smoking censer's lid 

Dropped a burning coal, which slid 

Into his sleeve, and passed in 

Between the folds e'en to the skin. 

Dire was the pain which then he proved, 

But not for this his sleeve he moved, 

Or would the scorching ember shake 

Out from the folds lest it should make 

Any confusion, or excite 

Disturbance at the sacred rite; 

But close he kept the burning coal, 

Till it eat itself a hole 

In his flesh. The standers-by 

Saw no sign and heard no cry. 

All this he did in noble scorn, 

And for he was a Spartan born. 

Young student who this story readest, 

And with the same thy thoughts now feedest, 

Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid, 

To do the thing the Spartan did ; 

Thy feebler heart could not sustain 

Such dire extremity of pain. 



89 

But in this story thou tnay'st see, 
That may useful prove to thee. 
By this example thou wilt find. 
That to the ingenuous mind, 
Shame can greater anguish bring, 
Than the body's suffering ; 
That pain is not the worst of ills,- 
Not when it the body kills ; 
That in fair religion's cause, 
For thy country, or the laws, 
When occasion dire shall offer, 
'Tis reproachful not to suffer. 



ALEXANDER SELKIRK.— Coioper. 

I am monarch of all I survey. 

My right tliere is none to dispute. 

From the centre all round to the sea, 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

solitude ! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach, 

I must finish my journey alone, 
Never hear the sweet music of speech, 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts, that roam over the plain, 

My form with indifference see, 
They are so unacquainted with man. 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 
.8* 



90 

Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestowed upon man, 
O had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then migl)t assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth, 
Might learn from the wisdom of age, 

And be cheered by the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! what treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! 
More precious than silver or gold, 

Or all that this earth can afford. 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard, 
Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell. 

Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared. 

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 
My friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 
O tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend 1 am never to see. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
When I think of my own native land, 

In a moment T seem to be there ; 
But, alas ! recollection at hand, 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 



91 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 

The beast is laid down in his lair. 
Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There is mercy in every place ; 

And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
Gives even affliction a grace, 

And reconciles man to his lot. 



MY BIRTHDAY.— jlif<5S Lamb. 

A dozen years since, in this house -what commotion, 
What bustle, what stir, and what joyful ado ; 
Every soul in the family at my devotion, 
When into the world 1 came twelve years go. 

I've been told by my friends, (if they do not belie me,) 
My promise was such as no parent would scorn ; 
The wise and the aged who prophesied by me. 
Augured nothing but good of me when I was born. 

But vain are the hopes which are formed by a parent, 
Fallacious the marks which in infancy shine ; 
My frail constitution soon made it apparent, 
I nourished within me the seeds of decline. 

On a sick bed I lay, through the flesh my bones started. 
My grief wasted frame to a skeleton fell ; 
My physicians foreboding took leave and departed, 
And they wished me dead now, who wished me well. 



92 

Life and soul were kept in by a mother's assistance, 
Who struggled with faith, and prevail'd 'gainst despair ; 
hike an angel she watched o'er the lamp of existence, 
And never would leave while a glimmer was there. 

By her care I'm alive now — but what retribution 
Can I for a life twice bestowed thus confer? 
Were I to be silent, each year's revolution 
Proclaims — each new birth-day is owing to her. 

The chance rooted tree that by way-sides is planted, 
Where no friendly hand will watch o'er its young 

shoots, 
Has less blame if in autumn, when produce is wanted, 
Enriched by small culture it put forth small fruits. 

But that which with labor in hot beds is reared, 
Secured by nice art from the dews and the rains, 
Unsound at the root may with justice be feared, 
If it pay not with interest the tiller his pains. 



THE RIDE.— jl/iss Lamb. 

Lately an equipage I overtook, 
And helped to lift it o'er a narrow brook. 
No horse it had except one boy who drew 
His sister out in it the fields to view. 

happy town-bred girl, in fine chaise going 
For the first time to see the green grass growing. 
This was the end and purport of the ride 

1 learn'd, as walking slowly by their side, 
I heard their conversation. Often she — 
" Brother is this the country that I see ?" 



93 

The bricks were smoking-, and the ground was broke, 

There were no signs of verdure when she spoke. 

He, as the well inform'd delight in chiding 

The ignorant, her questions still deriding. 

To his good judgment modestly she yields ; 

Till brick kilns past, they reach'd the open fields. 

Then as with rapturous wonder round she gazes 

On the green grass, the buttercups, and daisies, 

" This is the country sure enough," she cries ; 

" Is't not a charming place ?" the boy replies, 

" We'll go no further." " No," she says, " no need, 

No finer place than this can be indeed." 

I left them gathering flowers, the happiest pair 

That ever London sent to breathe the fine fresh air. 



THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.— H. K. White. 

Oh ! yonder is the well known spot, 
My dear, my long lost native home ! 
Oh ! welcome is yon little cot, 
Where I shall rest, no more to roam ! 
Oh ! I have travelled far and wide. 
O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 
And sung and danced my saraband. 
But all their charms could not prevail, 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 

Of distant climes the false report, 
It lured me from my native land ; 
It bade me rove ; my sole support 
My cymbals and my saraband. 



94 

The woody dell, the hanging rock, 
The chamois skipping o'er the heights; 
The plain adorned with many a flock, 
And, oh ! a thousand more delights 
That grace yon dear beloved retreat, 
Have backward won my weary feet. 

Now safe returned, with wandering tired, 
No more my little home I'll leave ; 
And many a tale of what I've seen 
Shall wile away the winter's eve. 
Oh ! I have wandered far and wide, 
O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 
And sung and danced my saraband. 
But all their charms could not prevail 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 



GENTLE RIVER. — Percifs Reliqucs. 

Gentle river, gentle river, 

Lo, thy streams are stained with gore, 
Many a brave and noble captain 

Floats along thy willowed shore. 

All beside thy limpid waters. 
All beside thy sands so bright, 

Moorish chiefs and Christian warriors 
Joined in fierce and mortal fight. 

Lords, and dukes, and noble princes, 
On thy fatal banks were slain ; 

Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter 
All the pride and flower of Spain. 



95 

There the hero, brave Alonzo, 
Full of wounds and glory died; 

There the fearless Urdiales 
Fell a victim by his side. 

Lo ! where yonder Don Saavedra 

Through their squadrons slow retires ; 

Proud Seville, his native city. 
Proud Seville his worth admires. 

Close behind a renegade 

Loudly shouts with taunting cry, 
Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra ! 

Dost thou from the battle fly 1 

Well I know thee, haughty Christian, 
Long I lived beneath thy roof; 

Oft I've in the lists of glory 

Seen thee win the prize of proof. 

Well I know thy aged parents, 
Well thy blooming bride I know ; 

Seven years I was thy captive. 
Seven years of pain and woe. 

May our prophet grant my wishes. 
Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine; 

Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow, 
Which I drank when I was thine. 

Like a lion turns the warrior. 
Back he sends an angry glare ; 

Whizzing came the Moorish javelin, 
Vainly whizzing, through the air. 



96 

Back the hero full of fury 

Sent a deep and mortal wound ; 

Instant sunk llie renegado 

Mule and lifeless on the ground. 

With a thousand Moors surrounded. 
Brave Saavedra stands at bay ; 

Wearied out, but never daunted, 
Cold at length the warrior lay. 

Near hinn fighting great Alonzo 
Stout resists the Paynim bands ; 

From his slaughtered steed dismounted, 
Firm intrenched behind him stands. 

Furious press the hostile squadron, 
Furious he repels their rage ; 

Loss of blood at length enfeebles; 
Who can war with thousands wage ! 

Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows. 
Close beneath its foot retired. 

Fainting sunk the bleeding hero, 
And without a groan expired. 



NOSE AND EYES.— Cowpcr. 

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose ; 

The spectacles set them unhappily wrona;' ; 
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 

To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 



97 

So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning ; 

While chief justice Ear sat to balance the laws, 
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 

" In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, 

And your lordship," he said, " will undoubtedly find, 

That the nose has had spectacles always in wear, — 
Wiiich amounts to possession time out of mind." 

Then holding the spectacles up to the court — 
" Your lordship observes they are made with a strad- 
dle 

As wide as the ridge of the nose is ; in short 
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 

" Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again,) 

That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
Pray who would or who could wear spectacles then? 

" On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, 
With a reasoning the court will never condemn, 

That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them." 

Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how. 
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes; 

But what were his arguments few people know. 
For the court did not think they were equally wise. 

So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone. 
Decisive and clear, without one if or but — 

That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 
By day -light or candle-light — Eyes should be shut. 
9 



98 



TRADITIONARY BALI. AT). —Mary Howitt. 

The furies of the Caldon-Low. A midsummer legend. 

" And where have you been, my Mary, 
And where liave you been from me?" 

" I've been at the top of tlie Caldon-Low, 
The midsummer night to see !" 

" And what did you see, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Low 1" 
" 1 saw the blithe sunshine come down, 

And I saw the merry winds blow." 

" And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Hill?" 
" I heard the drops of water made, 

And the green corn-ears to till." 

" Oh tell me all, my Mary — 

All, all that ever you know ; 
For you must have seen the faries, 

Last night, on Caldon-Low." 

*' Then take me on your knee, mother, 
And listen, mother of mine ; — 

A hundred fairies danced last night, 
And the harpers they were nine." 

And merry was the glee of the harp strings. 
And their dancing feet so small ; 

But, oh, the sound of their talking, 
Was merrier far than all 1" 



99 

" And what were the words, my Mary, 

That you did hear them say V 
" I'll tell you all, my mother — 

But let me have my way ! 

" And some, they played with the water. 

And rolled it down the hill ; 
'And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn 

The poor old miller's mill ; 

" * For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May ; 
And a busy man shall the miller be, 

By the dawning of the day ! 

" * Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, 

When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, 

Till the tears fill both his eyes !' 

" And some, they seized the little winds, 

That sounded over the hill. 
And each put a horn into his mouth, 

And blew so sharp and shrill — 

" ' And there," said they, ' the merry winds go. 

Away from every horn ; 
And those shall clear the mildew bank, 

From the blind old widow's corn ! 

" ' Oh, the poor, blind old widow — 
Though she has been blind so long, 

She'll be merry enougii when the mildew 's gone, 
And the corn stands stiff and strong !' 



100 

" And some, they brought the brown lint-seed, 
And flung it down from the Low — 

* And this,' said they, ' by the sunrise, 

In the weaver's croft shall grow ! 

" ' Oh, the poor, lame weaver, 

How he will laugh outright. 
When he sees his dwindling flax-field 

All full of flowers by night !' 

" And then upspoke a brownie, 
With a long beard on his chin, 

• I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 

' And I want some more to spin. 

" * I've spun a piece of hempen cloth. 

And I want to spin another — 
A little sheet for Mary's bed, 

And an apron for her mother !' 

" And with that I could not help but laugh, 
And I laughed out loud and free ; 

And then on the top of the Caldon-Low, 
There was no one left but me. 

" And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, 

The mists were cold and gray, 
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones 

That round about me lay. 

" But as I came down from the hill top, 

I heard a jar below ; 
How busy the jolly miller was. 

And how merry the wheel did go ! 



101 

** And I peeped into the widow's field, 

And, sure enough, was seen 
/The yellow ears of ihe mildewed corn 
All standing stiff and green. 

*' And down by the weaver's croft I stole, 
To see if the flax were high ; 

But I saw the weaver at his gate, 
With the good news in his eye ! 

" Now, this is all I heard, mother. 

And all that I did see ; 
So, prythee, make my bed, mother, 

For I'm tired as I can be !" 



CRUMBS TO THE BIRDS.— J»f(55 Lamb. 

A bird appears a thoughtless thing, 
He's ever living on the wing, 
And keeps up such a carolling, 
That little else to do but sing 

A man would guess had he. 

No doubt he has his little cares. 
And very hard he often fares, 
The which so patiently he bears. 
That, listening to those cheerful airs. 
Who knows but he may be 

In want of his next meal of seeds 1 
I think for that his sweet song pleads. 
If so, his pretty art succeeds. 
I'll scatter here among the weeds 

All the small crumbs I see. 

9* 



102 



TO THE LADY-BIRD.— Jl/r5. Soutkey. 

" Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home," — 
The field mouse is gone to her nest, 

The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, 
And the bees and the birds are at rest. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird 1 fly away home, — 
The glow-worm is lighting her lamp. 

The dew's falling fast, and your fine speckled 
wings 
Will flag with the close clinging damp. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 

Good luck if you reach it at last ! 
The owl's come abroad, and the bat's on the roam, 

Sharp set from their Ramazan fast. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 

The fairy bells tinkle afar ! 
Make haste, or they'll catch ye, and harness ye fast 

With a cobweb, to Oberon's car. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 
To your house in the old willovv tree. 

Where your children, so dear, have invited the ant, 
And a few cozy neighbors to tea. 

Lady-bird ! lady-bird ! fly away home, — 

And if not gobbled up by the way. 
Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car, 

You're in luck — and that's all I've to say. 



103 



THE ROOK AND THE SPARROW.— Mss Lamb. 

A little boy with crumbs of bread 
Many a hungry sparrow fed. 
It was a cliild of little sense, 
Who this kind bounty did dispense; 
For suddenly it was withdrawn, 
And all the birds were left forlorn, 
In a hard time of frost and snow, 
Not knowing where for food to go. 
He would no longer give them bread, 
Because he had observ'd (he said,) 
That sometimes to the window came 
A great black bird, a Rook by name, 
And took away a small bird's share ; 
So foolish Henry did not care 
What became of the great rook. 
That from the little sparrows took. 
Now and then as 'twere by stealth, 
A part of their abundant wealth ; 
Nor evermore would feed his sparrows. 
Thus ignorance a kind heart narrows. 
I wish I had been there, I would 
Have told the child, rooks live by food 
In the same way that sparrows do. 
I also would have told him too, 
Birds act by instinct, and ne'er can 
Attain the rectitude of man. 
Nay, that even when distress 
Does on poor human nature press. 
We need not be too strict in seeing 
The failings of a fellow being. 



104 



TO A REDBREAST.— Langliorne. 

Little bird with bosom red, 
Welcome to my humble shed ! 
Courtly domes of high degree 
Have no room for thee or me ; 
Pride and pleasure's fickle throng 
Nothing mind an idle song. 
Daily near my table steal, 
While I pick my scanty meal. 
Doubt not, little though there be, 
But I'll cast a crumb to thee j 
Well rewarded, if I spy 
Pleasure in thy glancing eye : 
See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill, 
Plume thy breast, and wipe thy bill. 
Come, my feather'd friend, again, 
Well thou know'st the broken pane. 



ODE TO THE CUCKOO.— Loo-ara. 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 
Thy certain voice we hear ; 

Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
Or mark the rolling year ? 



n 



105 

Delightful visitant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers, 
^nd hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The school-boy, wandering through the wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, 

And imitates the lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No winter in thy year. 

Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing 
Our annual visit o'er tlie globe, 

Companions of the Spring. 



MARINER'S HYMN.— Mrs. Soutkey. 

Launch thy bark, Mariner ! 

Christian, God speed thee ! 
Let loose the rudder bands, 

Good angels lead thee ! 
Set thy sails warily, 

Tempests will come; 
Steer thy course steadily. 

Christian, steer home ! 



106 

Look to the weather bow, 

Breakers are round thee; 
Let fall the plummet now, 

Shallows may ground thee. 
Reef in the foresail, there ! 

Hold the helm fast ! 
So — let the vessel wear — 

There swept the blast. 

What of the night, watchman ? 

What of the night? 
" Cloudy, all quiet, — 

No land yet — all's right." 
Be wakeful, be vigilant — 

Danger may be 
At an hour when all seemeth 

Securest to thee. 

How ! gains the leak so fast? 

Clear out the hold — 
Hoist up thy merchandize, 

Heave out thy gold ; — 
There, let the ingots go — 

Now the ship rights ; 
Hurra ! the harbor's near, — 

Lo ! the red lights. 

Slacken not sail yet 

At inlet or island ; 
Straight for the beacon steer, 

Straight for the high land ; 
Crowd all thy canvas on, 

Cut through the foam — 
Christian ! cast anchor now— 

Heaven is thy home ! 



107 



THE TWO ESTATES— jlfar?/ Howitt. 

The children of the rich man no carking care they 

know, 
Like lilies in the sunshine how beautiful they grow ! 
And well may they be beautiful ; in raiment of the best, 
In velvet, gold and ermine, their little forms are drest. 
With a hat and jaunty feather set lightly on their head, 
And golden hair, like angel's locks, over their shoul- 
ders spread. 

And well may they be beautiful ; they toil not, neither 

spin. 
Nor dig, nor delve, nor do they aught their daily bread 

to win. 
They eat from gold and silver all luxuries wealth can 

buy; 
They sleep on beds of softest down, in chambers rich 

and high. 
They dwell in lordly houses, with gardens round about, 
And servants to attend them if they go in or out. 

They have music for the hearing, and pictures for the 

eye, 
And exquisite and costly things each sense to gratify. 
No wonder they are beautiful ! and if they chance to die. 
Among dead lords and ladies, in the chancel vault they 

lie. 
With marble tablets on the wall inscribed, that all may 

know. 
The children of the rich man are mouldering below. 



108 



The children of the poor man, around the humble doors 
They throng of city allies and solitary moors. 
In hot and noisy factories they turn the ceaseless wheel, 
And eat with feeble appetite their coarse and joyless 

meal. 
They rise up in the morning ne'er dreaming of delight ; 
And weary, spent, and heartsore, they go to bed at 

night. 

They have no brave apparel, with golden clasp and gem ; 
So their clothes keep out the weather, they're good 

enough for them. 
Their hands are broad and horny ; they hunger and 

are cold ; 
They learn what toil and sorrow mean ere they are five 

years old. 
The poor man's child must step aside if the rich man's 

child go by ; 
And scarcely aught may minister to his little vanity. 

And of what could he be vain ? — his most beautiful 

array 
Is what the rich man's children have worn and cast 

away. 
The finely spun, the many-hued, the new, are not for 

him. 
He must clothe himself, with thankfulness, in garments 

soiled and dim. 
He sees the children of the rich in chariots gay go by. 
And, " what a heavenly life is theirs," he sayeth with 

a sigh. 



109 

Then straightway to his work he goeth, for feeble 
though he be, 

Hi§ daily toil must still be done to help the family. 

Thus jive the poor man's children ; and if they chance 
to die, 

In plain, uncostly coffins, 'raong common graves they 
lie ; 

Nor monument nor headstone their humble names de- 
clare : — 

But thou, O God, wilt not forget the poor man's chil- 
dren there ! 



TO THE RAINBOW — Campbell. 

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art. 

Still seem as to my childhood's sight, 
A midway station given — 

For happy spirits to alight 
Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach, unfold 
Thy form to please me so. 

As when I dreamed of gems and gold 
Hid in thy radiant bow? 

When Science from creation's face 
Enchantment's veil withdraws, 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws ! 
10 



110 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, 

But words of the Most High 
Have told why first thy robe of beams 

Was woven in the sky. 

When o'er the green undeluged earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 

How came the world's gray fathers forth, 
To watch thy sacred sign ? 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 

O'er mountains yet untrod, 
Each mother held aloft her child, 

To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. 

The first made anthem rang 
On earth, delivered from the deep, 

And the first poet sang. 

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye, 

Unraptured greet thy beam ; 
Theme of primeval prophecy. 

Be still the poet's theme I 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 
The lark thy welcome sings, — 

When glittering in the freshened fields 
The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O'er mountain, tower, and town ; 

Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 



Ill 

As fresh as yon horizon dark, 
As young thy beauties seem, 

As when the eiigle from the ark 
First sported ni thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page, 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span ; 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age, 
That first spoke peace to man. 



TO A BEE.— Southey. 

Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

As abroad I took my early way, 
Before the cow from her resting place 

Had risen up and left the trace 
On the meadow, with dew so gray. 

Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee I 

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee I 
After the fall of the cistus flower ; 
When the primrose of evening was ready to burst, 

I heard thee last, as I saw thee first ; 
In the silence of the evening hour, 
Heard I thee, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee ! 
Late and early at employ ; 
Still on thy golden stores intent, 
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent 
What thy winter will never enjoy ; 
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee. 



112 

Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee ! 
What is the end of thy toil. 
When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone, 
And all thy work for the year is done, 

Thy master comes for the spoil : 
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee ! 



THE 

DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN; 

Showing how he went further than he intended, and came safe home 
again. — Cowper. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A train-band captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 

" Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 

" To-morrow is our wedding day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 

All in a chaise and pair. 

"My sister and my sister's child. 

Myself, and cliildren three, 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 



113 

He soon replied, " I do admire 

Of woman-kind but one ; 
,And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

** I am a linen draper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 
And my good friend the callender 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Quoth Mistress Gilpin, " That's well said ; 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnished with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; 

Well pleased was he to find. 
That, though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stayed, 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folk so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 
10* 



114 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again ; 

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he. 

His journey to begin, 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came ; for loss of time. 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind ; 
When Betty screaming came down stairs, 

" The wine is left behind 1" 

" Good lack !" qouth he, — " yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise. 
In which I bear my trusty sword, 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !)• 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold the liquor which she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear. 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side. 
To keep his balance true. 



115 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well-shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which galled him in his seat. 

So, " Fair and softly," John he cried, 

JBut John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasped the main with both his hands. 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before. 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or naught ; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 



116 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 

Like streamer long and gay. 
Till, loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung ; 
A bottle swinging on each side. 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children screamed, 

Up flew the windows all ; 
And every soul cried out, " Well done !" 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 

His fame soon spread around, 
** He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousand pound." 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view, 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shattered at a blow. 



Down ran the wine into the road, 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, 

As they had basted been. 



117 

But still he seemed to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced ; 
JFor all might see the bottle-necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
And till he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay. 

And there he threw the Wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving spouse 

From balcony espied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

" Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! here's the house"- 

They all at once did cry ; 
" The dinner waits, and we are tired ;" 

Said Gilpin—" So am I." 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why 1 — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew. 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 



118 

Away went Gilpin out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend, the calender's, 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : 

" What news ? what news ? your tidings tell ; 

Tell nie you must and shall — 
Say why bare-headed you are come, 

Or why you come at all V 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke ; 
And thus unto the calender 

In merry guise he spoke : 

" I came because your horse would come ; 

And, if I well forbode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here. 

They are upon the road." 

The calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin. 
Returned him not a single word. 

But to the house went in ; 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig ; 

A wig that flowed behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear, 

Each comely in its kind. 



119 

He held them up, and in his turn 
Thus showed his ready wit ; 

*' My head is twice as big as yours, 
Therefore they needs must fit. 

** But let me scrape the dirt away, 
That hangs upon your face ; 

And stop and eat, for well you may 
Be in a hungry case." 

Said John, " It is my wedding day ; 

And all the world would stare, 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware." 

So turning to his horse, he said, 

" I am in haste to dine ; 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine." 

Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 

For which he paid full dear ; 
For while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear ; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And galloped off" with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went Gilpin's hat and wig ; 

He lost them sooner than at first, 
For why 1 — they were too big. 



120 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 

She pulled out half a crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said. 

That drove them to the Bell, 
" This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and well." 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain ; 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 

By catching at his rein ; 

But not performing what he meant, 

And gladly would have done. 
The frighted steed he frighted more, 

And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels, 
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 
With post-boy scampering in the rear, 

They raised the hue and cry ; 

" Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman !" 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 



121 

And now the turnpike gates again 
Flew open in short space ; 

,The tf)llman thinking, as before, 
That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too, 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopped till where he first got up, 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing ; Long live the king ! 

And Gilpin, long live he ; 
And, when he next doth ride abroad, 

May I be there to see ! 



GOOD RESOLUTIONS— JFa«s. 

Though I am now in younger days, 
Nor can tell what shall Lefal me, 

I'll prepare for every place, 

Where my growing age shall call me. 

Should I e'er be rich or great, 

Others shall partake my goodness ; 

I'll supply the poor with meat, 
Never showing scorn or rudeness. 

When I see the blind or lame, 

Deaf or dumb, I'll kindly treat them ; 

I deserve to feel the same, 

If I mock, or hurt, or cheat them. 
11 



122 

If I meet wltli railing tongues, 

Why should I return their railing? 

Since I best revenge my wrongs 
By my patience never failing. 

When I hear them telling lies, 

Talking foolish, cursing, swearing ; 

First I'll try to make them wise, 
Or I'll soon go out of hearing. 

What though I be low and mean, 
I'll engage the rich to love me, 

W^hile I'm modest, neat and clean, 
And submit when they reprove me. 

If I should be poor and sick, 
I shall meet, I hope, with pity ; 

Since I love to help the weak, 
Though they're neither fair nor witty. 

I'll not willingly offend. 

Nor be easily offended ; 
What's amiss I'll strive to mend. 

And endure what can't be mended. 

May I be so watchful still 

O'er my humors and my passions, 
As to speak and do no ill. 

Though it should be all the fashion. 

Wicked fashions lead to hell ; 

Ne'er may I be found complying ; 
But in life behave so well. 

Not to be afraid of dying. 



123 



THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD. — Cunningham. 

Child of the country ! free as air 

Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ; 

Born, like the lily, where the dew 

Lies odorous when the day is new ; 

Fed 'mid the May flowers like the bee, 

Nursed to sweet music on the knee, 

Lull'd in the breast to that glad tune 

Which winds make 'mong the woods of June : 

I sing of thee; — 'tis sweet to sing 

Of such a fair and gladsome thing. 

Child of the town ! for thee I sigh ; 
A gilded roofs thy golden sky, 
A carpet is thy daisied sod, 
A narrow street thy boundless road. 
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp 
Of watchmen, thy best light's a Tamp, — 
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines 
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines j 
I sing of thee in sadness ; where 
Else is wreck wrought in auglit so fair. 

Child of the country ! thy small feet 
Tread on strawberries red and sweet j 
With thee I wander forth to see 
The flowers which most delight the bee ; 
The bush o'er which the throstle sung 
In April, while she nursed her young; 
The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where 
She bred her twins the timorous hare ; 
The knoll, wrouglu o'er with wild blue-bells, 
Where brown bees build their balmy cells; 
The greenwood stream, the shady pool, 
Where trouts leap when the day is cool ; 



124 

The shilfa's nest that seems to be 
A portion of the shehering tree, — 
And other marvels which my verse 
Can find no hinguage to rehearse. 

Child of tiie town ! for thee ahts ! 
Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass ; 
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun 
Glad streams come singing as they run ; 
A May-pole is thy blossomed tree, 
A beetle is thy murmuring bee ; 
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where 
Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare ; 
Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound- 
Hawked clamorous all the city round ; 
No roses, twin-born on the stalk, 
Perfume thee in thy evening walk ; 
No voice of birds, — but to thee comes 
The minsfled diu of cars and drums. 
And startling cries, such as are rife 
When wine and wassail waken strife. 

Child of the country! on the lawn 
I see thee like the bounding fawn. 
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing 
The first time on the winds of spring; 
Bright as the sun when from the cloud 
He comes as cocks are crowing loud ; 
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, 
Now groping trouts in lucid streams, 
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, 
Now hunting echo's empty sound, 
Now climbing up some old tall tree — 
For climbing sake. 'Tis sweet to thee 
To sit where birds can sit alone, 
Or share with thee thy venturous throne. 

Child of the town and bustling street, 
What woes and snares await thy feet! 



125 

Thy paths are paved for five long miles, 

Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles ; 

Tl;y fragrant air is yon thick smoke, 

Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak ; 

And thou art cabined and confined, 

At once from sun, and dew and wind ; 

Or set thy tottering feet but on 

Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone; 

The coachman there careering reels 

With goaded steeds and maddening wheels ; 

And Commerce pours each poring son 

In pelf's pursuit and hollos' run ; 

While flushed with wine, and stung at play, 

Men rush from darkness into day. 

The stream's too strong for thy small bark ; 

There nought can sail, save what is stark. 

Fly from the town, sweet child ! for health 
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. 
There is a lesson in each flower, 
A story in each stream and bower ; 
On every herb on which you tread 
Are written words which, rightly read, 
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod 
To hope, and holiness, and God. 



THE TWO BOYS.— Miss Lamb. 

I saw a boy with eager eye 
Open a book upon a stall, 
And read as he'd devour it all; 
Which when the stall-man did espy, 
Soon to the boy I heard him call, 
" You Sir, you never buy a book, 
11* 



126 

Therefore in one you shall not look." 
The boy passed slowly on, and, with a sigh, 
He wish'd he never had been taught to read, 
Then of the old churl's books he should have had 
no need. 

Of sufferings the poor have many, 
Which never can the rich annoy. 
I soon perceived another boy, 
Who looked as if he'd not had any 
Food for that day at least, enjoy 
The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. 
This boy's case, thouglit I, is surely harder ; 
Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny 
Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat ; 
No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learned to eat. 



A SONG TO CREATING WISDOM.— Watts. 

Eternal wisdom. Thee we praise. 

Thee the creation sings; 
With Thy loud name, rocks, hills, and seas. 

And Heaven's high palace rings. 

Place me on the bright wings of day, 

To travel with the sun ; 
With what amaze shall I survey 

The wonders Thou hast done ! 

Thy hand how wide it spread the sky, 

How glorious to behold ! 
Tinged with a blue of heavenly dye 

And starred with sparkling gold. 



127 

There Thou hast bid the globes of light 

Tlieir endless circles run ; 
There the pale planet rules the night, 

And day obeys the sun. 

Downward I turn my wondering eyes 
On clouds and storms below, 

Those under regions of the skies 
Thy numerous glories show. 

The noisy winds stand ready there 

Thy orders to obey, 
"With sounding wings they sweep the air 

To make Thy chariot way. 

There, like a trumpet, loud and strong, 
Thy thunder shakes our coast; 

While the red lightnings wave along 
The banners of Thine host. 

On the thin air, without a prop, 
Hang fruitful showers around ; 

At Thy command they sink, and drop 
Their fatness on the ground. 

How did Thy wondrous skill array 
The fields in charming green ; 

A thousand herbs Thy art display, 
A thousand flowers between ! 

The rolling mountains of the deep 
Observe Thy strong command ; 

Thy breath can raise the billows steep, 
Or sink them to the sand. 



128 

Amidst Thy watery kingdoms, Lord, 

The finny nations play, 
And scaly monsters, at Thy word, 

Rush through the northern sea. 



Thy glories blaze all nature round, 

And strike the gazing sight. 
Through skies, and seas, and solid ground, 

With terror and deliyht. 



Infinite strength, and equal skill, 
Shine through the worlds abroad, 

Our souls with vast amazement fill, 
And speak the builder God. 

But the sweet beauties of Thy grace 
Our softer passions move ; 

Pity divine in Jesus' face 
We see, adore, and love 1 



THE COFFEE SLIPS— Miss Lamb. 

Whene'er I fragrant coffee drink, 
I on the generous Frenchman think 
Whose noble perseverance bore 
The tree to Mariinico's shore. 
While yet her colony was new, 
Her island products but a few. 
Two shoots from off a coffee tree 
He carried with him o'er the sea. 



129 

Each little tender coffee slip 

He waters daily in the ship ; 

And, as he tends his embryo tree, 

Feels he is raising midst the seas 

Coffee groves, wliose ample shade 

Shall screen the dark Creolian maid. 

But soon, alas ! his darling pleasure, 

In watching this his precious treasure, 

Is like to fade — for water fails 

On board the ship in which he sails. 

Now all the reservoirs are shut, 

The crew on short allowance put. 

So small a drop is each man's share, 

Few leavings you may think there are 

To water these poor coffee plants ; 

But he supplies their gasping wants ; 

E'en from his own dry parched lips 

He spares it for his coffee slips. 

Water he gives his nurslings first, 

Ere he allays his own deep thirst; 

Lest if he first the water sip. 

He bear too far his eager lip. 

He sees them droop for want of more, 

Yet when they reach the destined shore, 

With pride the heroic gardener sees 

A living sap still in the trees. 

The islanders his praise resound ; 

Coffee plantations rise around ; 

And Martinico loads her ships 

With produce from those dear-saved slips. 



130 



ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOW'S THREE 
SONS. 

There are twelve months in all the year, 

As I hear many say, 
But the merriest month in all the year 

Is the merry month of May. 

Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 

With a link-a-down and a-day ; 
And there he met a silly old woman, 

Was weeping on the way. 

•* What news ? what news ? thou silly old woman, 

What news hast thou for me ?" 
Said she, " There's three squires in Nottingham 
town, 

To-day are condemned to die." 

" Oh what have they done ?" said Robin Hood, 

I pray thee tell to me." 
" It's for slaying of the king's fallow deer, 

Bearing their long bows with thee." 

Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone. 

With a link-a-dovvn and a-day, 
And there he met with a silly old Palmer, 

Was walking along the highway. 

" What news ? what news 1 thou silly old clown. 

What news, I do thee pray 1" 
Said he, " Three squires in Nottingham town, 

Are condemned to die this day." 



131 

" Come change tliy apparel with me, old man, 
Come change thy apparel for mine ; 

Here is forty shillings in good silver, 
Go drink it in beer or wine." 

Then he put on the old man's cloak, 
Was patched black, blue, and red ; 

He thought it no shame, all the day long. 
To wear the bags of bread. 

Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone 

With a link-a-down and a-down. 
And there he met with the proud sheriff, 

Was walking along the town. 

" Oh Christ you save, oh sheriff!" he said, 

" Oh Christ you save and see ; 
And what will you give to a silly old man, 

To-day will your hangman be ]" 

" Some suits, some suits," the sheriff he said, 

" Some suits I'll give to thee ; 
Some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen. 

To-day's a hangman's fee." 

Then Robin he turns him round about, 

And jumps from stock to stone ; 
" By the truth of my body," the sheriff he said, 

" That's well jumped, thou nimble old man." 

" I vvas ne'er a hangman in all my life. 

Nor yet intend to trade ; 
But curst be he," said bold Robin, 

" That first was a hangman made. 



132 

" I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt, 

And a bag for barley and corn ; 
A bag for bread, and a bag for beef, 

And a bag for my little horn. 

" I have a horn in my pocket, 

I got it from Robin Hood, 
And still when I set it to my mouth. 

For thee it blows no good." 

" Oh wind thy horn, thou proud fellow. 

Of thee I have no doubt ; 
I wish that thou give such a blast. 

Till both thy eyes fall out." 

The first loud blast that he did blow, 

He blew both loud and shrill ; 
A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's men 

Came riding over the hill. 

The next loud blast that he did give, 

He blew both loud and amain, 
And quickly sixty of Robin Hood's men 

Came shining over the plain. 

" Oh who are those," the sheriff he said, 

" Come tripping over the lee ?" 
" They're my attendants," brave Robin did say, 

" They'll pay a visit to thee." 

They took the gallows from the slack — 

They set it in the glen — 
They hang'd the proud sheriff on that tree, 

Released their own three men. 



133 



' ROBIN HOOD AND THE GOLDEN ARROW. 

When as the sheriff of Nottingham 

Was come with mickle grief, 
He talked no good of Robin Hood, 

That strong and sturdy thief. 

So unto London road he passed, 

His losses to unfold 
To king Richard, who did regard 

The tale that he had told. 



" Why," quoth the king, " what shall I do? 

Art thou not sheriff for nie ? 
The law is in force, to take thy course 

Of them that injure thee." 

" Go get thee gone, and by thyself 

Devise some tricking game. 
For to enthral yon rebels all. 

Go take thy course with them." 

So away the sheriff he returned, 

And by the way he thought 
Of the words of the king and how the thing 

To pass might well be brought. 

For within his mind he imagined, 
That when such matches were, 

Those outlaws stout, without all doubt, 
Would be the bowmen there. 
12 



134 

So an arrow with a golden head, 

And shaft of silver-white, 
Who on the day should bear away 

For his own proper right. 

Tidings came to bold Robin Hood, 

Under the greenwood tree ; 
" Come, prepare you then, my merry men. 

We'll go yon sport to see." 

Oh then bespoke brave Little John, 

" Come let us thither gang ; 
Come listen to me, how it shall be, 

That we shall not be ken'd. 

" Our mantles all of Lincoln green 

Behind us we will leave ; 
We'll dress us all so several, 

They shall not us perceive. 

" One shall wear white, another red, 

One yellow, another blue ; 
Thus in disguise, to the exercise 

We'll gang, whate'er insue." 

Forth from the greenwood they are gone. 
With hearts ail firm and stout, 

Resolving then with the sheriff's men 
To have a hearty bout. 

So themselves they mixed with the rest, 

To prevent all suspicion ; 
For if they should together hold 

They thought it no discretion. 



135 

So the sheriff looking round about, 

Amongst eight hundred men, 
But could not see the sight that he, 

Had long suspected then. 

Some said, " if Robin Hood was here, 

And all his men to boot, 
Sure none of them could pass these men, 

So bravely they do shoot." 

" Ay ;" quoth the sheriff, and shook his head, 
" I thought he would have been here ; 

I thought he would, but though he's bold. 
He durst not now appear." 

O that word grieved Robin Hood to the heart, 

He vexed in his blood ; 
Ere iotjg, thought he, thou well shalt see, 

That here was Robin Hood. 

Some cried, "Bluejacket !" another cried, "Brown !" 
And another cried, " Brave Yellow !" 

But a fourth tnan said, " Yon man in red, 
In this place has no fellow." 

For that was Robin Hood himself. 

For he was cloth'd in red ; 
At every shot the prize he got, 

For he was both sure and dead. 

So the arrow with the golden head. 

And sliaft of silver-white, 
Brave Robin Hood won, and bore with him. 

For his own proper right. 



136 

These outlaws there, that very day, 

To shun all kinds of doubt, 
By three or four, no less nor more, 

As they went, in came out. 

Until they all assembled were 

Under the greenwood shade, 
Where they report, in pleasant sport. 

What brave pastime they made. 

Says Robin Hood, " All my care is. 

How that yon sheriff may 
Know certainly that it was I 

That bore his arrow away. 

"This I advise," said Little John, 

•' That a letter shall be penned. 
And when it is done, to Nottingham 

You to the sheriff shall send." 

" That's well advised," said Robin Hood, 

" But how must it be sent?" 
" Pugh ! when you please, 'tis done with ease; 

Master, be you content." 

" I'll stick it on my arrow's head, 

And shoot it into the town ; 
The mark must show where it must go, 

Whenever it lights down." 

The project it was well performed, 

The sheriff that letter had. 
Which when he read, he shook his head, 

And rav'd like one that's mad. 



137 



THE KING'S DISGUISE AND FRIENDSHIP WITH 
ROBIN HOOD. 

King Richard hearing of the pranks 

Of Robin Hood and his men, 
He mucli admired, and more desired 

To see both him and tliem. 

Then, with a dozen of his lords, 

To Nottingham he rode ; 
When he came there he made good cheer, 

And took up his abode. 

He having stayed there some time, 

Bi)t had no hopes to speed, 
He and his lords, with one accord, 

All put on monk's weeds. 

From Fountain-abbey they did ride, 

Down to Barnsdale ; 
Where Robin Hood prepared stood 

All company to assail. 

The king was higher than the rest, 

And Robin thought he had 
An abbot been whom he had seen ; 

To rob him he was glad. 

He took the king's horse by the head, 

" Abbot," says he, " abide ; 
I am bound to rue such knaves as you, 

That live in pomp and pride." 
12* 



138 

" But we are messengers from the king," 

The king himself did say ; 
" Near to this place his royal grace 

To speak with thee does stay." 

" But 1 am very glad," says Robin Hood, 

" That we have met you here ; 
Come, before we end, you shall, my friend, 

Taste of our greenwood cheer." 

> 

The king he then did marvel much. 

And so did all his men ; 
They thought with fear, what kind of cheer, 

Robin would provide for them. 

Robin took the king's horse by the head. 

And led him to his tent: 
" Thou wouldst not be so used," quoth he, 

*' But that my king thee sent." 

** Nay, more than that," quoth Robin Hood, 
" For good king Richard's sake. 

If you had as much gold as ever I told, 
I would not one penny take." 

Then Robin set his horn to his mouth. 

And a loud blast he did blow, 
'Till a hundred and ten of Robin Hood's men 

Came marching all of a row. 

And when they came bold Robin before, 

Each man did bend his knee : 
Oh, thought the king, 'lis a gallant thing. 

And a seemly sight to see. 



139 

Within himself the king did say, 

"These men of Robin Hood's 
]Wore luiinbie be tiian mine to me ; 

So the court may learn of the woods." 

So then they all to dinner went, 

Upon a carpet green ; 
Black, yellow, red, finely mingled, 

Most curious to be seen. 

Then Robin takes a can of ale : 

" Come, let us now begin ; 
And every man shall have his can : 

Here's a health unto the king." 

*' Well, Robin Hood," then says the king, 

" If I could thy pardon get, 
To serve the king in every thing 

Wouldst thou thy mind firm set 1" 

" Yes with all my heart," bold Robin said, 

So they flung off their hoods, 
To serve the king in every thing, 

They swore they would spend their bloods 

" I am the king, your sovereign king, 

That appears before you all." 
When Robin saw tliat it was he. 

Straight then he down did fall. 

*' Stand up again," then said the king, 

'* I thee your pardon give ; 
Stand up my friend, who can contend, 

When I give leave to live V 



140 

So they are all gone to Nottingham, 

All shouting as they came ; 
But when the people them did see, 

They thouglit the king was slain ; 

And for that cause the outlaws were come, 

To rule all as they list ; 
And for to shun, which way to run, 

The people did not wist. 

The plowman left the plow in the fields. 

The smith ran from his shop ; 
Old folks also, that scarce could go, 

Over their sticks did hop. 

The king soon let them understand 
He had heen in the greenwood. 

And from that day, forever more, 
He'd forgiven Robin Hood. 

They are all gone to London court, 
Robin Hood with all his train ; 

He once was there a noble peer, 
And now he's there again. 



ROBIN HOOD AND THE VALIANT KNIGHT. 

When Robin Hood, and his merry men all, 

Had reigned many years, 
The king was then told that they had been bold 

To his bishops and noble peers. 



141 

Therefore they called a council of state, 
To know what was best to be done, 

f^or (o quell tiieir pride, or else they replied 
The land would be overrun. 

Having consulted a whole summer's day, 

At length it was agreed, 
That one should be sent to try the event, 

And fetch him away with speed. \ 

Therefore a trusty and most worthy knight 

The king was pleased to call, 
Sir William by name ; when to him he came. 

He told him his pleasure all. 

" Go you from hence to bold Robin Hood, 

And bid him, without more ado, 
Surrender himself, or else the proud elf 

Shall suffer with all his crew." 

"Take here a hundred bowmen brave, 

All chosen men of great might, 
Of excellent art to take thy part, 

In glittering armor most bright." 

Then said the knight, " My sovereign liege, 

By me they shall be led ; 
I'll venture my blood against bold Robin Ilood, 

And bring him alive or dead." 

One hundred men were chosen straight, 

As proper as e'er men saw : 
On midsummer-day they marched away, 

To conquer that brave outlaw. 



142 

With long yew bows and shining spears 

They marched with mickle pride, 
And never delayed, nor halted, nor stayed, 

Till they reached the greenwood side. 

Said he to his archers, " Tarry here, 

Your bows make ready all. 
That if need should be, you may follow me, 

And see you observe my call." 

" I'll go first in person," he cry'd, 
" With the letters of my good king. 

Well signed and sealed, and if he will yield, 
We need not to draw one string." 

He wandered about till at length he came 

To the tent of Robiti Hood ; 
The letter he shows ; bold Robin arose, 

And there on his guard he stood. 

" They'd have me surrender," quoth bold Robin 
Hood, 

" And lie at their mercy then ; 
But tell them from me, that never shall be, 

While I have full seven score men." 

Sir William the knight, both hardy and bold, 

He offered to seize him there, 
Which William Locksley by fortune did see, 

And bid him that trick forbear. 

Then Robin Hood set his horn to his mouth, 

And blew a blast or twain. 
And so did the knigi)t, at which there in sight 

The archers came all amain. 



143 

Sir William with care he drew up his men, 
And placed them in battle array ; 

Bold Robin, we find, he was not behind : 
Now this was a bloody fray. 

The archers on both sides bent their bows, 

And the clouds of arrows flew ; 
The very first flight that horior'd knight 

Did there bid the world adieu. 

Yet nevertheless their fight did last 
From morning till almost noon ; 

Both parties were stout, and lolh to give out ; 
This was on the last day of June. 

At length they left off; one party they went 
To London with right good will ; 

And Robin Hood he to the greenwood tree, 
And there he was taken ill. 



ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL. 

When Robin Hood and Little John, 

Went o'er yon bank of broom, 
Said Robin Hood to Little John, 

" We iiuve shot for many a pound ; 

" But 1 am not able to shoot one shot more, 

My arrows will not flee ; 
But I have a cousin lives down below. 

Please God, she will bleed me." 



144 

Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, 

As fast as he can win ; 
But before he came there, as we do hear, 
He was taken very ill. 

And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, 

He knocked all at the ring, 
But none was so ready as his cousin herself 

For to let bold Robin in. 

" Will you please to sit down, Cousin Robin," she 
said, 

" And drink some beer with me?" 
" No, I will neither eat nor drink 

Till I am blooded by thee." 

She blooded him in the vein of the arm, 

And locked him up in the room ; 
There did he bleed all the livelong day, 

Until the next day at noon. 

He then bethought him of a casement door, 

Thinking for to be gone. 
He was so weak he could not leap, 

Nor he could not get down. 

He then bethought him of his bugle horn, 
Which hung low down at his knee. 

He set his horn unto his mouth, 
And blew out weak blasts three. 

Then Little John, when hearing him. 

As he sat under the tree, 
" I fear my master is near dead, 

He blows so wearily." 



145 

Then Little John to fair Kirkley is gone, 

As fast as he can dree ; 
Bat when he came to Kirkley-hall, 

He broke locks two or three: 
Until lie came Bold Rohiii to, 

Then he fell on his knee. 



" But give me my bent bow in my hand. 
And a broad arrow I'll let flee ; 

And where this arrow is taken up, 
There shall my grave digged be. 

" Lay me a green sod under my head. 

And another at my feet ; 
And lay my bent bow by my side, 

Which was my music sweet ; 
And make my grave of gravel and green, 

Which is most risht and meet. 



*' Let me have length and breadth enough, 
With a green sod under my head ; 

That they may say when I am dead, 
• Here lies Bold Robid Hood.' " 



These words they readily promised him. 
Which did bold Robin please : 

And there they buried bold Robin Hood 
Near to the fair Kirkleys. 

13 



146 



PEACE AND THE SHEPHERD.— jtfr^. Barhauld. 

Low in a deep sequestered vale, 
Whence Alpine heights ascend, 

A beauteous nymph, in pilgrim garb, 
Is seen her steps to bend. 

Her olive garland drops with gore, 

Her scattered tresses torn, 
Her bleeding breast, her bruised feet. 

Bespeak a maid forlorn. 

"From bower, and hall, and palace driven. 

To these lone wilds I flee ; 
My name is Peace — I love the cot; 

Oh, Shepherd, shelter me." 

** O Beauteous Pilgrim, why dost thou 

From bower and palace flee ? 
So soft thy voice, so sweet thy look, 

Sure all would shelter thee." 



" Like Noah's dove, no rest I find ; 

The din of battle roars 
Where once my steps I loved to print. 

Along the myrtle shores : 

Forever in my frighted ears 

The savage war-whoop sounds; 

And, like a panting hare, I fly 
Before the opening hounds." 



147 

" Pilgrim, those spicy groves among 
The mansions thou may'st see, 

'When cloistered saints chant holy hymns; 
Sure such would shelter thee." 



" Those roofs with trophied banners stream ; 

There martial hymns resound ; 
And, shepherd, oft from crosiered hands 

This breast has felt a wound." 



Ah, gentle Pilgrim, glad would I 
Those tones forever hear ! 

"With thee to share my scanty lot, 
That lot to me were dear. 



THE BATTLE OF BhENHEJU—Southey. 

It was a summer evening, 

Old Kaspar's work was done, 
And he before his cottage door 

Was silting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His liiile grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round, 

Which he beside the rivulet 
In |)laying there had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 



148 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh, — 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's scull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 

** I find them in the garden, 
For there's many here about ; 

And often when I go to plough, 
The ploughshare turns them out. 

For many thousand men," said he, 

" Were slain in that great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up. 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
" Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they killed each other for." 

" It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
" Who put the French to rout ; 

But what they killed each other for, 
I could not well make out. 

But every body said," quoth he, 

" That 'twas a famous victory. 

" My fatlier lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burned his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 



149 

" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide ; 
,And many a hapless mother then, 

And new-born baby died. 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

" Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, 

And our good Prince Eugene." 
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing 1" 

Said little Wilhelmine. 
" Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

" And every body praised the Duke, 

Who this great fight did win." 
" But what good came of it at last 1" 

Quoth little Peterkin. 
" Why, that I cannot tell," said he, 
" But 'twas a famous victory." 



TO MY BIRDIE— .Vrs. Southey. 

Here's only you an' me. Birdie ! here's only you 
an' me ! 
An' there you sit, you humdrum fowl ! 
Sae mute an' mopish as an owl — 

Sour companie ! 

Sing me a little song. Birdie ! lift up a little lay ! 
When folks are here, fu' fain are ye 
To stun them with your minstrelsie. 

The lee lang day ; 
13* 



150 

An' now we're only twa, Birdie ! an' now we're 
only twa ; 
'Tvvere sure but kind and cozie, Birdie ! 
To charm wi' yere wee hurdie-gurdie 
Dull care awa'. 

Ye ken when folks are paired, Birdie ! ye ken 
when folks are paired, 
Life's fair, an' foul, and freakish weather, 
An' light an' lumbring loads, thegitlier 

Maun a' be shared ; 

An' shared wi' looin' hearts, Birdie ! wi' looin' 
hearts and free, 
Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne ; 
An' roughest roads to velvet turn. 

Trod cheerfully. 

We've all our cares and crosses, Birdie ! we've a' 
our cares an' crosses; 
But then to sulk an' sit so glum, 
Hout ! tout ! what guid o' that can come 

To mend one's losses? 

Ye're dipt in wiry fence. Birdie ! ye're dipt in 
wiry fence. 
An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang 
Upo' a wish, wad be or laiig 

Wi' friends far hence ; 

But what's a wish, ye ken. Birdie ! but what's a 
wish, ye ken, 
Nae cantrip nag, like hers of Fife, 
Who darnit wi' the auld weird wife. 

Flood, fell an' fen. 



151 

'Tis true ye're furnished fair, Birdie! 'tis true 
ye're furnished fair, 
Wi' a braw pair of bonnie wings 
Wad lift ye whar yon lav'rock sings 

High up i' th' air ; 

But then that wire's sae Strang, Birdie ! but then 
that wire's sae Strang ! 
An' J myself, sae seemin' free — 
Nae wings have I to waften me 

Whar fain I'd gang. 

An* say we'd baith our wills, Birdie ! we'd each 
our wilfu' way : 
Whar lav'rocks hover, falcons fly ; 
An' snares an' pit-fa's often lie 

Whar wishes stray. 

An' ae thing vveel I wot. Birdie ! an' ae thing weel 
I wot, 
Tliere's ane abune the highest sphere, 
Wha cares for a' His creatures here, 

Marks every lot ; 

Wha guards the crowned king. Birdie ! wha guards 
the crowned king, 
An' taketh heed for sic as me — 
Sae little worth — an' e'en for thee, 

Puir witless thing ! 

Sae now, let's baith cheer up. Birdie ! an' sin* 
we're only twa, 
AfFlian' — let's ilk ane do our best. 
To ding that crabbit, cankered pest. 
Dull care awa' 1 



152 



ODE .TO SOLITUDE, 

Written by Pope, when 12 years old. 

Happy the man, whose wish and care 

A tew paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter fire. 

Blest who can unconcern'dly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 
In health of body, peace of mind, 

Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease. 

Together mixed ; sweet recreation, 
And innocence, which most does please, 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus unlamented let me die ; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 

Tell where I lie. 



153 



THE INCHCAPE ROCK.— Southey. 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
The ship was still as she could be ; 
Her sails from Heaven received no motion, 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell. 
They did not move the Inchcape bell. 

The abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape rock ; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung. 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the rocks were hid by the surge's swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous rock, 
And blessed the abbot of Aberbrothok. 



The sun in Heaven was shining gay, 

All things were joyful on that day ; 

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round. 

And there was joyaunce in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck. 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 



154 

He felt the cheering power of Spring, 
It made him whistle, it made him sing ; 
His heart was mirtliful to excess, 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
duoth he, " My men, put out the boat, 
And row me to the Inchcape rock. 
And I'll plague the abbot of Aberbrotliok." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape rock they go ; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat 

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound, 

The bubbles rose and burst around ; 

Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the 

rock. 
Won't bless the abbot of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away ; 
He scoured the seas for many a day; 
And now grown rich with plundered store. 
He steers his cours;e for Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, 
They cannot see the sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day, 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is they see no land ; 
Quoth Sir Ralph, •' It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 



155 

" Canst hear," said one, " the breakers roar, 
For methiiiks we should be near the shore?" 
",No\v where we are I cannot tell, 
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell." 

They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along; 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock; 
Oh, Death ! it is the Inchcape rock. 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair ; 
He curst himself in his despair ; 
The waves rush in on every side, 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 



THE GRASSnOFTEB.— Cowley. 

Happy insect ! what can be 
In happiness compared to thee ? 
Fed with nourishment divine, 
The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 
Nature waits upon thee still, 
And thy verdant cup doth fill ; 
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, 
Nature's self's thy Ganymede. 
Thou dost drink, and dance and sing; 
Happier than the happiest king ! 
All the fields which thou dost see, 
All the plants, belong to thee ; 
All that summer-hours produce. 
Fertile made with early juice. 
Man for thee does sow and plough ; 



156 

Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 

Thou dost innocently joy, 

Nor does thy luxury destroy ; 

The shepherd gladly heareth thee, 

More harmonious than he. 

Thee country hinds with gladness hear, 

Prophet of the ripened year ! 

Thee Phcehus loves, and does inspire ; 

Phoebus is himself thy sire. 

To thee, of all things upon earth, 

Life is no longer than thy mirth. 

Happy insect ! happy thou, 

Dost neither age, nor winter know ; 

But, when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung 

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, 

Sated with thy summer feast. 

Thou relir'st to endless rest. 



A PASTORAL HYMN— j^/r5. Barhauld. 

" Gentle pilgrim, tell me why 

Dost thou fold thine arms and sigh, 

And wistful cast thine eyes around ? 

Whither, pilgrim, art thou bound 1" 

" The road to Zion's gates I seek ; 

If thou canst inform me, speak." 

" Keep yon right-hand path with care, 

Though crags obstruct, and brambles tear; 

You just discern a narrow track — 

Enter there and turn not back." 

" Say where that pleasant pathway leads. 

Winding down yon flowery meads? 

Songs and dance the day beguiles, 

Every face is drest in smiles." 



167 

" Shun with care that flowery way ; 
'Twill lead thee, pilgrim, far astray." 
/* Guide or counsel do I need 1" 
" Pilgrim, he who runs may read." 
" Is the way that I must keep, 
Crossed by waters wide and deep?" 
" Did it lead through flood and fire, 
Thou must not stop, thou must not tire." 
" Till I have my journey past, 
Tell me, will the daylight last? 
Will the sky be bright and clear 
Till the evening shades appear 1" 
" Though the sun now rides so high, 
Clouds may veil the evening sky ; 
Fast sinks the sun, fast wears the day, 
Thou must not stop ; thou must not stay ; 
God speed thee, pilgrim, on thy way !" 



LLEWELLYN'S DOG.— Spencer. 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, 
And cheerly smiled the morn. 

And many a brach, and many a hound, 
Attend Llewellyn's horn ; 

And still he blew a louder blast. 

And gave a louder cheer ; 
" Come Gelert, why art thou the last, 

Llewellyn's horn to hear ?" 

" O where does faithful Gelert roam, 

The flower of all his race ? 
So true, so brave, — a lamb at home, 

A lion in the chase !" 
14 



158 

'Twas only at Llewellyn's board 

The faithful Gelert fed ; 
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord. 

And sentinel'd his bed. 

In sooth he was a peerless hound ; 

The gift of royal John ; 
But now no Gelert could be found, 

And all the chase rode on. 

And now, as over rocks and dells 

The gallant chidings rise, 
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells 

With many mingled cries. 

That day Llewellyn little loved 

The chase of hart or hare ; 
And scant and small the booty proved. 

For Gelert was not there. 

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied. 

When, near the portal seat, 
His truant Gelert he espied, 

Bounding his lord to greet. 

But when he gained his castle door. 

Aghast the chieftain stood ; 
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore. 

His lips and fangs ran blood ! 

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, 

Unused such looks to meet ; 
His favorite checked his joyful guise, 

And crouched and licked his feet. 



159 

Onward in haste Llewellyn passed, 

(And on went Gelert too,) 
And still where'er his eyes were cast, 

Fresh blood gouts shocked his view ! 

O'erturned his infant's bed he found ; 

The blood-stained cover rent : 
And all around the walls and ground 

With recent blood besprent. 

He called his child — no voice replied ; 

He searched — with terror wild ; 
Blood ! blood he found on every side. 

But no where found his child ! 

" Hell-hound ! by thee my child's devoured !" 

The frantic father cried ; 
And to the hilt his vengeful sword 

He plunged in Geiert's side. 

His suppliant, as to earth he fell, 

No pity could impart; 
But still his Geiert's dying yell 

Passed heavy o'er his heart. 

Aroused by Geiert's dying yell, 

Some slumberer wakened nigh ; 
What words the parent's joy can tell 

To hear his infant cry ! 

Concealed beneath a mangled heap 

His hurried search had missed, 
All glowing from his rosy sleep, 

His cherub boy he kissed. 



160 

Nor scratch had he, nor harm nor dread ; 

But the same couch beneath, 
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, 

Tremendous still in death ! 

Ah ! what was then Llewellyn's pain ! 

For now the truth was clear ; 
The gallant hound the wolf had slain, 

To save Llewellyn's heir. 

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe; 

" Best of thy kind, adieu ! 
The frantic deed which laid thee low, 

This heart shall ever rue 1" 

And now a gallant tomb they raise, 
With costly sculpture decked ; 

And marbles storied with his praise 
Poor Gelert's bones protect. 

Here never could the spearman pass. 

Or forester, unmoved ; 
Here oft the tear besprinkled grass 

Llewellyn's sorrow proved. 

And here he hung his horn and spear ; 

And oft, as evening fell, 
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear 

Poor Gelert's dying yell. 



161 



ON A HIGHLAND SOhmER.— Gillespie. 

FOUND DEAD IN GALLOWAY. 

From the climes of the sun, all warworn and weary, 
The Highlander sped to his youthful abode ; 
Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary, 
Tho' fierce was the sunbeam, and steep was the road. 

Till, spent with the march, that still lengthened be- 
fore him. 

He stopped by the way in a sylvan retreat ; 

The light shady boughs of the beech tree waved o'er 
him, 

And the stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet. 

He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended ; 
One dream of his childhood his fancy passed o'er ; 
But his battles are fought, and his march now is ended ; 
The sound of the bagpipe shall wake him no more. 

No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him, 
Though war launched her thunder in fury to kill ; 
Now the angel of death in the desert has found him, 
And stretched him in peace by the stream of the hill. 

Pale autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest ; 
The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest ; 
And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest. 
And moistenest the heath-bell that weeps on his breast 

14* 



162 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 
From the German of Ukland. Tianslaled by Longfellow. 

Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 

That castle by the sea? 
Golden and red above it 

The clouds float gorgeously. 

And fain it would stoop downward 

To the mirrorred wave below ; 
And fain it would soar upward 

In the evening's crimson glow. 

Well have I seen that castle, 

That castle by the sea, 
And the moon above it standing, 

And the mist rise solemnly. 

The winds and the waves of ocean. 

Had they a merry chime ? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ? 

The winds and the waves of ocean, 

They rested quietly, 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail. 

And tears came to mine eye. 

And sawest thou on (he turrets 
The king and his royal bride ? 

And the wave of their crimson mantles ? 
And the golden crown of pride? 



163 

Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there 1 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 

Beaming with golden hair 1 

Well saw I the ancient parents, 
Without the crown of pride ; 

They were moving slow in weeds of woe, 
No maiden was by their side ! 



SATURDAY AFTERNOON Willis. 

I love to look on a scene like this, — 

Of wild and careless play, — 
And persuade myself that I am not old. 

And my locks are not yet gray ; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 

And it makes his pulses fly, 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for fourscore years. 

And they say that I am old. 
And my heart is ripe for the reaper, death, 

And my years are well nigh told. 
It is very true ; it is very true ; 

I'm old ; and I bide my time ; 
But my heart will leap at a scene like this. 

And I half renew my prime. 

Play on, play on ; I am with you there. 
In the midst of your merry ring; 

I can feel the thrill of the daring jump. 
And the rush of the breathless swing. 



164 

I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
And I whoop the smothered call, 

And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come. 

And I shall be glad to go ; 
For the world, at best, is a dreary place, 

And rny pulse is getting low ; 
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 

In treading its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 

To see the young so gay. 



CASABIANCA— JJ/r5. Hemans. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 
Whence all but him had fled ; 

The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 



Yet beautiful and bright he stood. 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go, 

Without his father's word ; 
That father faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 



165 

He called aloud, " Say, father, say 
If yet my task is done 1" 
' He knew not that the chieftain lay 
Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak father !" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone," — 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waviirg hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father ! must I stay ?'' 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high. 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound ; 

The boy — oh ! where was he 1 
Ask of the winds, that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea ! 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part ; 

But the noblest thing that perished there 
Was that young faithful heart. 



166 



THE BUCKET— S. Woodworth. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
The orchard, the meadows, the deep tangled wild wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; 
The wide spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, 
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it. 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; 

For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent 1 seized it, with hands that were glowing, 

And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing. 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well. 



167 



BOAT SONG. — Scolt. 



Hail to the chief who in triumph advances ! 
Honored and blest be the evergreen pine ! 
Long may the tree in his banner that glances, 
Flourish the shelter and grace of our line? 
Heaven send it happy dew, 
Earth send it sap anew, 
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow; 
While every highland glen 
Sends our shout back again, 
•' Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho ! ieroe !" 

Ours is no sapling, chance sown by the fountain, 

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; 
When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on 
the mountain, 
The more shall Clan Alpine exult in her shade. 
Moored in the rifted rock, 
Proof to the tempest's shock. 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; 
Menteith and Breadalbane, then. 
Echo his praise again, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho ! ieroe !" 

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, 
And Banochar's groans to our slogan replied ; 
Glen Luss and Ross Dhu, they are smoking in ruin, 
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her 
side. 

Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid, 



168 

Think of clan Alpine with fear and with woe ; 
Lenox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear again 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho ! ieroe !" 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the highlands! 

Stretch to your oars for the evergreen pine I 
O ! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands 
Were wreathed in a garland around him to 
twine ! 

O ! that some seedling gem, 
Worthy such noble stem. 
Honored and blessed in their shadow might 



grow 



Loud should Clan Alpine then 
Ring from her deepest glen, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho ! ieroe !" 



THE WATERFALL AND EGLANTINE— TFortiszoortA. 

" Begone, thou fond presumptuous elf," 

Exclaimed a thundering voice, 

'•' Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 

Between me and my choice !" 

A small Cascade fresh svvoln with snows 

Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 

That, all bespattered with its foam, 

And dancing high, and dancing low, 

Was living, as a child might know, 

In an unhappy home. 

" Dost thou presume my course to block ? 
Off, off! or, puny thing ! 



169 

I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock 
To which thy fibres cling." 
,The Flood was tyrannous and strong ; 
The patient Briar suffered long, 
Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 
Hoping the danger would be past ; 
But, seeing no relief, at last 
He ventured to reply. 

" Ah !" said the Briar, " blame me not, 

Why should we dwell in strife? 

We who in this sequestered spot 

Once lived a happy life ! 

You stirred me on my rocky bed — ■ 

What pleasure through my veins you spread ! 

The summer long, from day to day, 

My leaves you freshened and bedewed ; 

Nor was it common gratitude 

That did your cares repay. 

** When Spring came on with bud and bell, 

Among these rocks did I 

Before you hang my wreaths, to tell 

That gentle days were nigh ! 

And in the sultry summer hours, 

I sheltered you with leaves and flowers ; 

And in my leaves — now shed and gone, — 

The linnet lodged, and for us two 

Chanted his pretty songs, when you 

Had little voice or none. 

" But now proud thoughts are in your breast- 
What grief is mine you see. 
Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 
Together we might be ! 
15 



170 

Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
Some ornaments to me are left — 
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
With which I, in my humble way, 
Would deck you many a winter's day, 
A happy Eglantine 1" 

What more he said I cannot tell, 
The Torrent thundered down the dell 
With aggravated haste ; 
I listened, nor aught else could hear; 
The Briar quaked — and much I fear 
Those accents were his last. 



LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF SELIN.— 

Lochliart. 

At the gate of old Grenada, when all its bolts are barred. 
At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a trampling heard. 
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, 
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of 

woe. 
" What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chiefs 

come these bewailing !" 
"A tower is fallen! A star is set! Alas! Alas! for 

Selin!" 

Three times they knock, three times they cry, the 

doors wide open throw ; 
Dejectedly they enter and mournfully they go ! 
In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the 

hollow porch— 



171 

Each horseman holding in his hand a black and flam- 
ing torch. 

Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is 
wailing, 

For ail have heard the misery. "Alas! Alas! for 
Selin !" 

Him yesterday a Moor did slay of Bencerrage's blood ; 
'Tvvas at the solemn jousting ; around the nobles stood ; 
The nobles of the land were there, and the ladies 

bright and fair 
Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight 

to share ; 
But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing, 
For he was Grenada's darling knight. "Alas! Alas! 

for Selin !" 

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, 
With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to 

view ; 
Behind him, his four sisters, each wrapp'd in sable veil, 
Between the tambours dismal strokes take up their 

doleful tale ; 
When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brother- 
less bewailing. 
And all the people far and near, cry, " Alas ! Alas ! for 
Selin !" 

The Moorish maid at her lattice stands, the Moor stands 

at his door. 
One maid is wringing of her hands and one is weeping 

sore, 
Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes 

black they strew 



172 

Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green and 

blue ; 
Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the 

loud bewailing, 
From door and lattice high and low, " Alas ! Alas ! for 

Selin !" 

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the 

people cry. 
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye ; 
It's she who nursed him at her breast, who nursed him 

long ago, 
She knows not whom they all lament, but ah ! she soon 

shall know. 
With one loud shriek she forward breaks, when her 

ears receive their wailing, 
"Let me kiss my Selin ere I die. Alas! Alas! for 

Selin !" 



THE ORPHAN BOY— Thehcall. 

Alas ! I am an orphan boy, 

With nought on earth to cheer my heart ; 
No father's love, no mother's joy. 

Nor kin, nor kind to take my part. 
My lodging is the cold, cold ground, 

I eat the bread of charity ; 
And, when the kiss of love goes round, 

There is no kiss, alas ! for me. 

Yet once I had a father dear, 

A mother too, I wont to prize. 
With ready hand to wipe the tear, 

If chanc'd a childish tear to rise ; 



173 

But cause of tears was rarely found, 
For all my heart was youthful glee ; 

And, when the kiss of love went round, 
How sweet a kiss there was for me ! 

But ah ! there came a war they say — 

What is a war, I cannot tell ; 
But drums and fifes did sweetly play. 

And loudly rang our village bell. 
In troth, it was a pretty sound 

I thought — nor could I once foresee 
That, when the kiss of love went round, 

There soon would be no kiss for me. 

A scarlet coat my father took, 

And sword as bright as bright could be ! 
And feathers, that so gaily look, 

All in a shining cap had he. 
Then how my little heart did bound ! 

Alas 1 I thought it fine to see ; 
Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round, 

There soon would be no kiss for me. 

My mother sighed, my mother wept. 

My father talked of wealth and fame; 
But still she wept, and sighed and wept, 

Till I to see her did the same. 
But soon the horsemen throng around, 

My father mounts with shout and glee, 
Then gave a kiss to all around, 

And ah ! how sweet a kiss to me ! 

But when I found he rode so far. 
And came not home as heretofore, 

I said it was a naughty war. 

And loved the drum and fife no more. 
15* 



174 

My mother oft in tears was drowned, 
Nor merry tale nor song had she ; 

And when the hour of night came round, 
Sad was the kiss she gave to me ! 

At length the bell again did ring, 

There was a victory they said ; 
'Twas what my father said he'd bring ; 

But ah ! it brought my father dead. 
My mother shrieked ; her heart was woe ; 

She clasped me to her trembling knee, 
Oh God ! that you may never know 

How wild a kiss she gave to me ! 

But once again — but once again. 

These lips a mother's kisses felt. 
That once again — that once again — 

The tale a heart of stone would melt ; 
'Twas when upon her death-bed laid — 

(Oh God ! oh God ! that sight to see !) 
" My child ! my child !" she feebly said, 

And gave a parting kiss to me. 

So now I am an orphan boy, 

With nought below my heart to cheer ; 
No mother's love, no father's joy. 

Nor kin, nor kind to wipe the tear. 
My lodging is the cold, cold ground ; 

I eat the bread of charity ; 
And, when the kiss of love goes round. 

There is no kiss of love for me. 

But I will to the grave, and weep, 
Where late they laid my mother low. 

And buried her with earth so deep, 
AH in her shroud as white as snow. 



175 

And there I'll call on her so loud, 
All underneath the church-yard tree, 

To wrap me in her snow white shroud, 
For those cold lips are dear to me. 



HUNTING SONG.— Scott. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
On the mountains dawns the day. 
All the jolly chase is here, 
With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear 
Hounds are in their couples yelling. 
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling ; 
Merrily, merrily, mingle they, — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay !" 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
The mist has left the mountain gray ; 
Springlets in the dawn are streaming, 
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ; 
And foresters have busy been, 
To track the buck in thickest green ; 
Now we come to chant our lay, — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay I" 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
To the green wood haste away ; 
We can show you where he lies, 
Fleet of foot and tall of size ; 
We can show the marks he made 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed ; 
You shall see him brought to bay, — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay !" 



176 

Louder, louder chant the lay, 
Waken, lords and ladies gay ; 
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee 
Run a course as well as we ; 
Time, stern huntsman, who can balk ! 
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk ; 
Think of this, and rise with day, — 
Gentle lords and ladies gay. 



FLOWERS— L. Hunt. 

We are the sweet flowers, 

Born of sunny showers, 
(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ;) 

Utterance, mute and bright, 

Of some unknown delight, 
We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath ; 

All who see us love us, — 

We befit all places : 
Unto sorrow we give smiles, — and unto graces, graces. 

Mark our ways, how noiseless 
All, and sweetly voiceless. 

Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage 
clear ; 

Not a whisper tells 

Where our small seed dwells, 

Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear. 
We thread the earth in silence, 
In silence build our bowers, — 

And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, 
sweet flowers. 



177 



GLENARA. — Campbell. 

Oh ! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, 
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 
'Tis the chief of Glenara, laments for his dear ; 
And her sire and her people are called to the bier. 

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud; 
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud; 
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; 
They marched all in silence — they looked on the 
ground. 

In silence they reached over mountain and moor, 
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar; 
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn ; — 
Why speak ye no word ?" said Glenara the stern. 

"And tell me, I charge ye, ye clan of my spouse, 
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ?" 
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made, 
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed. 

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamtof her shroud," 
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; 
" And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem; 
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" 

O pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween ; 
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; 
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn — 
'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn, — 



178 

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief; 
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem ; 
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" 

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, 
And the desert revealed where his lady was found ; 
From a rock of the ocean that lady is borne ; 
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn. 



THE SAILOR BOYS DREAM— Dimond. 

In slumbers of midnight, the sailor boy lay : 
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 

But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While memory stood sidewise, half covered with flow- 
ers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide. 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise — 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide. 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch. 
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the 
wall ; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 



179 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight, 
His check is impearled with a mother's warm tear, 

And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, 
Joy quickens his pulse — his hardships seem o'er, 

And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest — 
" Oh God thou hast blest me — I ask for no more." 

Ah ! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye ? 

Ah ! what is that sound which now larums his ear? 
'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky! 

'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere ! 

He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck ; 

Amazement confronts him with images dire — 
Wild winds and waves drive the vessel a wreck — 

The masts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on fire ! 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell — 
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mary to save ; 

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell. 
And the death angel flaps his brood wing o'er the 
wave. 

Oh ! sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, 

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss ? 

Oh sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed, and unhonored, down deep in the main, 
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. 



180 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge, 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, 
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge. 

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid ; 

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, 

And every part suit to thy mansion below. 

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll — 

Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye — 
Oh ! sailor boy, sailor boy, peace to thy soul. 



TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.— f/wnf. 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 
Catching your heart up at the feel of June, 
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, 
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass ; 
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 
With those who think the candles come too soon, 
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass. 

Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, 

One to the fields, the other to the hearth. 

Both have your sunshine, both though small arc 

strong 
At your clear hearts ; and both seem given to earth 
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — 
In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. 



181 



. LORD ULLEN'S DAVGUTER.— Campbell. 

A chieftain to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry, 
And I'll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry." 

" Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water 1" 
" Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, 
And this Lord Ullen's daughter. 

" And fast before her father's men. 
Three days we've fled together ; 
For should he find us in the glen. 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen fast behind us ride, — 
Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover 1" 

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I'll go, my chief — I'm ready — ■ 
It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady ! 

" And, by my word, the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 
I'll row you o'er the ferry." 
16 



182 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water wraith was shrieking ; 
And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 
A-down the glen rode armed men — 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" Oh haste thee, haste," the lady cries, 
** Though tempests round us gather ; 
I'll meet the raging of the skies ; 
But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her, — 

When, oh ! too strong for human hand, 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 

And still they rowed, amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing ; 
Lord Ullen reached that fatal shore, 
His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 
His child he did discover ; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 
And one was round her lover. 

" Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, 

" Across this stormy water ; 

And I'll forgive your Highland chief — 

My daughter ! oh my daughter 1" 



183 

'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore, 
Return or aid preventing ; 
The waters wild went o'er his child — 
And he was left lamenting. 



TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN —Bryant. 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew. 
And colored with the Heaven's own blue, 

That openest, when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 

Thou comest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 

Or columbines, in purple dressed, 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, 

When woods are bare and birds are flown, 

And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 

Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 

Hope, blossoming within my heart. 
May look to Heaven as I depart. 



184 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.— Camplell. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had low- 
ered, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, — 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die, 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain; 
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ; 
'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 

In life's morning march when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft. 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn -reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore. 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart. 

" Stay, stay with us— rest, thou art weary and worn ;" 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn. 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 



185 



MY DOVES.— Miss Barrett. 

My little doves have left a nest 

Upon an Indian tree, 
Whose leaves fantastic take their rest 

Or motion from the sea ; 
For, ever there the sea winds go, 
With sunlit faces, to and fro. 

The tropic flowers looked up to it, 
The tropic stars looked down ; 

And there my little doves did sit, 
With feathers softly brown ; 

And glittering eyes, that showed their right 

To general nature's deep delight. 

And God them taught, at every close 

Of water far, and wind, 
And lifted leaf, to interpose » 

Their chanting voices kind ; 
Interpreting that love must be 
The meaning of the earth and sea. 

Fit ministers ! of living loves 

Their's hath the calmest sound — 

Their living voice the likest moves 
To lifeless noises round — 

In such sweet monotone as clings 

To music of insensate things ! 

My little doves were taken away 

From that glad nest of theirs; 
Across an ocean foaming aye, 

And tempest-clouded airs. 
My little doves! who lately knew 
The sky and wave by warmth and blue ! 
16* 



186 

And now within the city prison, 
In mist and chillness pent, 

With sudden upward look they listen 
For sounds of past content — 

Nor lapse of water, swell of breeze, 

Or nut fruit falling from the trees ! 

The stir without the glow of passion — 
The triumph of the mart — 

The gold and silver's dreary clashing 
With man's metallic heart — 

The wheeled pomp, the pauper tread, 

These only sounds are heard instead. 

Yet still, as on my human hand 
Their fearless heads they lean, 

And almost seem to uuderstand 
What human musings mean — 

With such a plaintive gaze their eyne 

Are fastened upwardly to mine ! 

Their chant is soft as on the nest 

Beneath the sunny sky ; 
For love, that stirred it in their breast, 

Remains undyingly, 
And, 'neath the city's shade, can keep 
The well of music clear and deep. 

And love, that keeps the music, fills 

With pastoral memories 1 
All echoings from out the hills, 

All droppings from the skies. 
All flowings from the wave and wind, 
Remembered in their chant I find. 



187 

So teach ye me the wisest part, 

My little doves ! to move 
Along the city ways, with heart 

Assured by holy love, 
And vocal with such songs as own 
A fountain to the world unknown. 

To me fair memories belong 
Of scenes that erst did bless; 

For no regret — but present song, 
And lasting thankfulness — 

And very soon to break away, 

Like types, in purer things than they ! 

I will have hopes that cannot fade, 
For flowers the valley yields — 

I will have humble thoughts, instead 
Of silent, dewy fields ! 

My spirit and my God shall be 

My seaward hill, my boundless sea. 



TROUBADOUR SONG— Mrs. Hemans. 

The warrior crossed the ocean's foam, 
For the stormy fields of war — 

The maid was left in a smiling home, 
And a sunny land afar. 

His voice was heard where javelin showers 

Pour'd on the steel-clad line ; 
Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers, 

Her seat beneath the vine. 



188 

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, 
And the red blood stained his crest ; 

While she — the gentlest wind of Heaven 
Might scarcely fan her breast. 

Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, 
And again he crossed the seas ; 

But she had died, as roses die, 
That perish with a breeze. 

As roses die, when the blast is come, 
For all things bright and fair — 

There was death within the smiling home, 
How had death found her there ? 



ALLEN A DAhE.—Sir W. Scott. 

Allen a Dale has no faggot for burning, 
Allen a Dale has no furrow for turning, 
Allen a Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 
Yet Allen a Dale has red gold for the winning. 
Come, read me my riddle, come hearken my tale, 
And tell me the craft of bold Allen a Dale. 

The baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, 
And he views his domains over Arkindale side. 
The mere for bis net, and the land for his game. 
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame, 
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale. 
Are less free to Lord Dacre, than Allen a Dale. 

Allen a Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 

Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright, 

Allen a D ile is no baron or lord, 



189 

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word. 
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail, 
Who at Rerecross or Stanemore meets Allen a Dale. 

Allen a Dale to his wooing is come ; 

The mother she asked of his house and his home ; 

" Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, 

My hall," quoth bold Allen, " shows gallanter still ; 

'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, 

And with all its bright spangles," said Allen a Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother was stone — 
They lifted the latch, and they bade him begone. 
But loud on the morrow their wail and their cry. 
He had laughed on the lass with his bonny blue eye, 
And she fled to the forest to hear a love tale, 
And the youth it was told by was Allen a Dale. 



ARABY'S DAUGHTER.— Jl/oore. 

Farewell — farewell to thee, Araby's daughter, 
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) 

No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water, 
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. 

Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing. 
How light was thy heart till love's witchery came. 

Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowing, 
And hushed all its music, and withered its frame. 

But long upon Araby's green sunny highlands, 
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom 

Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, 
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb. 



190 

And still when the merry date-season is burning', 
And calls to the palm groves the young and the old, 

The happiest there, from their pastime returning, 
At sunset, still weep when thy story is told. 

The young village maid when with flowers she dresses 
Her dark flowing hair, for some festival day. 

Will think of thy fate, till, neglecting her tresses, 
She mournfully turns from her mirror away. 

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! forget thee ; 

Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start ; 
Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, 

Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. 

Farewell, — be it ours to embellish thy pillow 
With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; 

Each flower of the rock, and each gem of the billow, 
Shall sweeten thy bed, and illumine thy sleep. 

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; 

With many a shell, in whose hollow wreathed chamber 
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. 

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling. 
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; 

We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are spark- 
ling. 
And gather their gold to strew over thy head. 

Farewell — farewell — until Pity's sweet fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave. 

They'll weep for the chieftain who died on that moun- 
tain. 
They'll weep for the maiden who sleeps in this wave. 



191 



HUMAN FRAILTY.— Cowpcr. 

Weak and irresolute is man, 

The purpose of to-day 
Woven with pains into his plan, 

To-morrow rends away. 

The bow well bent and smart the spring, 

Vice seems already slain ; 
But passion rudely snaps the string, 

And it revives again. 

Some foe to his upright intent 

Finds out his weaker part; 
Virtue engages his assent, 

But pleasure wins his heart. 

'Tis here the folly of the wise 
Through all his art we view ; 

And while his tongue the charge denies, 
His conscience owns it true. 

Bound on a voyage of awful length, 

And dangers little known, 
A stranger to superior strength, 

Man vainly trusts his own. 

But oars alone can ne'er prevail ; 

To reach the distant coast; 
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, 

Or all the toil is lost. 



192 



THE UNIVERS7VL PRAYER.— Pope. 

Father of all ! in every age, 

In every clime adored, 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord 1 

Thou great First Cause, least understood, 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that Thou art good, 

And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 
And, binding nature fast in fate, 

Left free the human will. 



What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns me not to do. 
This teach me more than hell to shun, 

That, more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings thy free bounty gives, 

Let me not cast away ; 
For God is paid when man receives, 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span 
Thy goodness let me bound ; 

Or think thee Lord alone of man, 
When thousand worlds are round. 



193 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand 

Presume thy boUs to throw, 
And deal damnation round the land 
' On each I judge thy foe. 

If I am right, thy grace impart, 

Still in the right to stay ; 
If I am wrong, O teach my heart 

To find that better way. 

Save me alike from foolish pride, 

Or impious discontent, 
At aught thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe ; 

To hide the fault I see ; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so, 
Since quickened by thy breath; 

O lead me wheresoe'er I go, — 
Through this day's life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot ; 

All else beneath the sun, 
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, 

And let thy will be done. 

To Thee, whose temple is all space. 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies I 

One chorus let all being raise ! 
All nature's incense rise! 
17 



194 



SIR PATRICK SPENCE. 

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 
Drinking tiie blude-red wine ; 

" O where shall I get a skeely skipper, 
To sail this ship of mine ?" 

O up and spake an eldern knight, — 
Sat at the king's right knee, — 

*' Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor 
That sails upon the sea." 

The king has written a braid letter, 
And sealed it with his hand ; 

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, 
Was walking on the Strand. 

" To Noroway, to Norovvay, 
To Noroway o'er the faem ; 

The king's daughter of Norovvay, 
'Tis thou maun bring her hanie." 

The first line that Sir Patrick read, 
Sae loud, loud, laughed he ; 

The next line that Sir Patrick read. 
The tear blinded his e'e. 

" O wha is this has done this deed, 

This ill deed done to me ; 
To send me out, this time o' the year, 

To sail upon the sea ? 



195 

" Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 

Our ship must sail the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis we must fetch her harae. 

" Make ready, make ready, my merry men all ! 

Our gude ship sails the morn." 
" Now, ever alake, my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm. 

" Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon 

Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 
And I fear, I fear, my dear master, 

That we will come to harm." 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league but barely three. 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud. 

And gurly grew the sea. 

The anchors brak, and the topmasts lap, 

It was sik a deadly storm ; 
And the waves came o'er the broken ship. 

Till all her sides were torn. 

"O where will I get a gude sailor. 

To take my helm in hand, 
Till I get up to the tall top-mast ; 

To see if I can spy land 1" 

" O here am I, a sailor gude, 

To take the helm in hand, 
Till you go up to the tall top-mast ; 

But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." 



196 

He hadna gone a step, a step, 

A step but barely ane, 
When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, 

And the salt sea it came in. 

" Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, 

Another o' the twine, 
And wap them into our ship's side, 

And let nae the sea come in." 

They fetched a web o' the silken claith. 

Another o' the twine, 
And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, 

And still the sea came in. 

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords 

To weet their cork-heeled shoon ! 
But lang or a' the play was played, 

They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed, 

That flattered on the faem ; 
And mony was the gude lord's son. 

That never mair came hame. 

The ladies wrang their fingers white, 

The maidens tore their hair, 
A' for the sake of their true loves ; 

For them they'll see nae mair. 

O lang, lang, may the ladies sit, 

Wi' their fans into their hand, 
Before they see Sir Patrick Spence 

Come sailing to the land. 



197 

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, 
Wi' their gold kaiins in their hair, 

A' waiting for their ain dear loves ! 
Tor they'll see them nae mair. 

O forty miles off Aberdeen, 

'Tis fifty fathoms deep, 
And there lies glide Sir Patrick Spence, 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 



LUCY Wordsworth. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, — and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me ! 

I travelled among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea ; 
Nor, England ! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 

17* 



198 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire ; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 
The bowers where Lucy played; 

And thine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 



BRIGNAL BANKS.— Sir W. Scott. 

O I Brignal banks are wild and fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
And you may gather garlands there, 

Would grace an English queen. 
And as I rove by Dalton-hall, 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrily : 

" O 1 Brignal banks are fresh and fair, 
And Greta woods are green ; 

I'd rather range with Edward there. 
Than reign an English queen." 



199 

" If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 

To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead we. 

That dwell by dale and down. 
And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt you speed, 

As blithe as queen of May." 

Yet sung she, " Brignal banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather range vvith Edward there. 

Than reign an English queen. 

" I read you by your bugle horn. 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn, 

To keep the king's greenwood." 
" A ranger, lady, winds his horn, 

And 'tis at peep of light ; 
His blast is heard at merry morn. 

And mine at dead of night." 

Yet sang she, " Brignal banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay, 
I would I were with Edward there, 

To reign his queen of May ! 

" With burnished brand and musquetoon. 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold dragoon, 

That lists the tuck of drum." 
" I list no more the tuck of drum. 

No more the trumpet hear, 
But when the beetle sounds his hum. 

My comrades take the spear. 



200 

" And, O ! though Brignal banks be fair, 

And Greta woods be gay, 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare, 
That reigns my queen of May ! 

" Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die ; 
The friend whose lantern lights the mead 

Is better mate than I ! 
And when I'm with my comrades met, 

Beneath the greenwood bough. 
What once we were we all forget. 

Nor think what we are now. 

" Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair. 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there, 

Fit for an English queen." 



TO A MOUSE, 



ON HER NEST BEING TURNED UP BY A 

PLOUGH. — Burns. 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, timrous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hastie, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 

Wi' murdering pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 



201 

An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

An' fellow mortal 1 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ; 
A diamen-icker^ in a thrave 

'S a sma' request ; 
I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,^ 

An' never miss 't ! 

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin ; 
Its silly wa's the wins are strewin ; 
An' naething, now, to big^ a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's wind ensuin, 

Baith snelH and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields lade bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, 

Bui*" house or bald, 
To thole® the winter's sleety dribble. 

An' cranreuch'' cauld ! 

1 An ear of corn now and Uien. 2 Rest. 3 Build. 4 Biting. 5 With- 
out. 6 Endure. 7 Hoar-frost. 



202 

But, mousie, thou art no thy ^lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain ; 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft a-gley^, 
An' leave us nought but grief an' pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blessed, compared with me ! 
The present only toucheth thee; 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear — 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY 

TURNED DOWN BY A PLOUGH. BumS. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure'" 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem ! 

Alas, it's not thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' speckled breast, 
When upward springing, biythe, to greet 

The purpling East. 

8 Alone. 9 Wrong. 10 Dust. 



203 

Cauld blew the bitter biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted^i forth, 

Amid the storm 1 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bieid^^ 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie^^ stibble-fieid, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread ; 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'er. 

Such fate to suffering worth is given. 
Who long with wants and woes has striven ; 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To mis'ry's brink ; 
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruined, sink. 

11 Peeped. 12 Shelter. 13 Barren. 



204 

E'en thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date; 
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom ; 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight. 

Shall be thy doom ! 



UOUENLmBEN.— Campbell. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night. 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle blade, 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

And redder yet those fires shall glow 
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow ; 
And darker yet shall be the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 



205 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun 
Can pierce tlie war clouds, rolling dun, 
When furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
'Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Ah ! few shall part where many meet, 
The snow shall be their winding sheet; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD — Mrs. Hemans. 

They grew in beauty, side by side. 
They filled one home with glee — 

Their graves are severed far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
She had each folded flower in sight — 

Where are those dreamers now ? 

One, 'midst the forests of the west. 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

18 



206 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, 
He lies where pearls lie deep — 

He was the loved of ail, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest. 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapt his colors round his breast, 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; 

She faded 'midst Italian flowers, 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who played 
Beneath the same green tree ; 

Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
About one parent knee 1 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheered with song the hearth — 

Alas I for love, \i thou wert all. 
And nought beyond, Oh Earth ! 



THE SOLITARY REAPER Wordsworth. 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain. 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
O listen ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 



207 

No nightingale did ever chant 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands; 
Such thrilling voice was never heard 
In spring time from the cuckoo bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far off things, 
And battles long ago — 
Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day 1 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
That has been, and may be again ! 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang, 
As if her song could have no ending ; 
I saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
I listened — motionless and still ; 
And when I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart 1 bore, 
Long after it was heard no more. 



LITTLE ROLAND. 

From the German of Uhland, by Mrs. Follen. 

Lady Bertha sat in the rocky cleft. 

Her bitter woes to weep ; 
Little Roland played in the free fresh air ; 

His sorrows were not deep. 



208 

" My royal brother, O king Charles, 

Why did I fly from thee ! 
Splendor and rank I lefi for love; 

Now thou art wroth with me. 

" O Milon, Milon, husband dear ! 

Beneath the waves art thou ; 
For love I have forsaken all ; 

Yet love forsakes me now, 

" O Roland ! thou my dearest boy, 

Now fame and love to me ; 
Come quickly, little Roland, come ! 

My hope rests all on thee. 

" Go to the city, Roland, go ! 

To beg us meat and bread ; 
And whoso gives the smallest gift, 

Ask blessings on his head." 

Now great king Charles at table sat, 

In the golden hall of slate ; 
With dish and and cup the servants ran, 

On the noble guests to wait. 

Flute, harp, and minstrelsy now tune 

All hearts to joyful mood ; 
The cheerful music does not reach 

To Bertha's solitude. 

Before the hall in the court-yard sat 
Of beggars a motley throng ; 

The meat and drink were more to them 
Than flute, and harp, and song. 



209 

The king looked through the open door, 

Upon the beggar tlirong ; 
Through the crowd he saw a noble boy, 
' Pushing his way along. 

Strange was the little fellow's dress ; 

Of divers colors all ; 
But with the beggars he would not stay ; 

He looked up at the hall. 

Within the hall little Roland treads, 

As though it were his own ; 
He takes a dish from the royal board 

In silence, and is gone. 

The king he thinks — what do I see 1 

This is a curious way : 
But, as he quietly submits, 

The rest do nothing say. 

In a little while again he comes ; 

To the king he marches up ; 
And little Roland boldly takes 

The royal golden cup. 

" Holloa ! stop there ! thou saucy wight !" 
King Charles's voice did ring ; 

Little Roland kept the golden cup, 
And looked up at the king. 

The king at first looked angrily ; 

But very soon he smiled ; 
" You tread here in our golden hall, 

As in the green woods wild. 

18* 



210 

" From the royal table you take a dish, 
As they take an apple from the tree j 

As with the waters of the brook, 
With my red wine you make free." 

" The peasant drinks from the running brook ; 

On apples she may dine ; 
My mother must have fish and game, 

For her is the foaming wine." 

" Is thy mother such a noble dame 

As thou, my boy, dost boast, — 
Then surely, she has a castle fair. 

And of vassals a stately host. 

" Tell me, who may her sewer be ? 

And who cup bearer too 1" 
" My own right hand her sewer is ; 

My left, cup bearer true." 

" Tell on ; who are her faithful guards V 

" My two blue eyes alway." 
"Tell on; who is her minstrel free?" 

" My rosy mouth, I say." 

** Brave servants has the dame, indeed ; 

But does strange livery choose, — 
Made up of colors manifold, 

Shining with rainbow hues." 

" From each quarter of the city, 

With eight boys I have fought ; 
Four sorts of cloth to the conqueror, 

As tribute, they have brought." 



211 

" The best of servants, to my mind, 

The dame's must surely be; 
She is, I wot, the beggars' queen, 
, Who keeps a table tree. 

** The noble lady sliould not far 

From my royal palace be ; 
Arise, three ladies, and three lords ! 

And bring her in to me." 

Little Roland, holding fast the cup. 
From tlie splendid hall he hies ; 

To follow him, at the king's command, 
Three lords, three ladies, rise. 

And after now a little while, 

The king sees, far away. 
The noble ladies and the knights 

Return without delay. 

The king he cries out suddenly, — 
" Help, Heaven ! see I aright 1 

'Tis my own blood, in open hall, 
I have treated with cruel slight. 

" Help Heaven ! in pilgrim dress I see 

My sister Bertha stand ; 
So pale in my gay palace here, 

A beggar's staff in her hand !" 

Lady Bertha sinks down at his feet, 

Pale image of despair ; 
His wrath returns, and he looks on her 

With a stern and angry air. 



212 

Lady Bertha quick cast down her eyes; 

No word to speak she tried ; 
Little Roland raised his clear blue eyes, — 

" My uncle!" loud he cried. 

"Rise up, my sister Bertha, rise !" 

The king said tenderly ; 
" For the sake of this dear son of thine, 

Thou shalt forgiven be." 

Lady Bertha rose up joyfully ; 

" Dear brother, thanks to thee ; 
Little Roland shall requite the boon 

Thou hast bestowed on me." 

He of the glory of his king 

Shall be an image fair ; 
The colors of many a foreign realm 

His banner and shield shall bear. 

The cup from many a royal board 

He shall seize with his free right hand, 

And safety and fresh glory bring 
To his sighing mother-land. 



THE ADOPTED CmLD.— Mrs. Hemans. 

" Why would'st thou leave me, oh ! gentle child ? 
Thy home on the mountains is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall — 
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of picture forever streams." 



!J3 



" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play, 
Through the long briglit hours of the summer day ; 
They tiiitl the red cu|)-tnoss where they climb, 
And they cliase the bee o'er the scented thyme ; 
And the rociis wliere the heath flower blooms 

they know — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let me go." 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bovver to dwell. 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune ; 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird, 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" My mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree. 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let me go." 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou would'st meet her footstep, tny boy, no more. 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
— Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh. 
And we'U pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away ? 

— But I know that my brothers are there at play ; 

I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell. 

Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well. 

Or they launch their boats where the bright streams 

flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let me go." 



214 



" Fair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the tnoiintain's brow, 
They have left tlie fern by the spring's green side, 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. 
— Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 

" Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill? 
— But the bird, and the blue fly rove o'er it still. 
And the red deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the turf is bent by the singing bee. 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow — 
Lady, kind lady 1 oh ! let nie go." 



« 



PSALM CXLVIII. 

Versified by Sandys, born in 1577. 

You who dwell above the skies, 

Free from human miseries ; 

You whom highest heaven embowers, 

Praise the Lord with all your powers ! 

Angels, your clear voices raise 1 

Him you heavenly armies praise ! 

Sun, and moon with borrowed light, 

All you sparkling eyes of night, 

Waters hanging in the air. 

Heaven of heavens, his praise declare ! 

His deserved praise record, 

His, who made you by his word — 

Made you evermore to last, 

Set you bounds not to be past. 

Let the earth his praise resound ; 

Monstrous whales, and seas profound, 



215 

Vapors, lightning, hail, and snows, 

Storms, which, when he bids them, blow ! 

Flowery hills, and mountains high, 

X^Jedars, neighbors to the sky. 

Trees, that fruit in season yield, 

All the cattle of the field, 

Savage beasts, all cree[)ing things, 

All that cut the air with wings 1 

You who awful sceptres sway, 

You, inured to oi)ey, 

Princes, judges of the earth, 

All, of high and humble birth I 

Youth, and virgins, flourishing 

In the beauty of your spring ; 

You who bow with age's weight. 

You who were but born of late ; 

Praise his name with one consent ; 

O how great ! how excellent ! 



PEACE OF MIND. — From old English Poetry. 

My mind to me a kingdom is ; 

Such perfect joy therein I find ; 
As far exceeds all earthly bliss. 

That God or nature hath assigned : 
Though much I want that most would have, 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

Content I live, this is my stay ; 

I seek no more than may suffice ; 
I press to bear no haughty sway ; 

Look what I lack my rnind supplies. 
Lo I thus I triumph like a king, 
Content with that my mind doth bring. 



21G 

I see how plenty puifeits oft, 

And hasty climbers soonest fall ; 

I see that such as sit aloft 

Mishap doth threaten nio?t of all ; 

These get with toil, and keep with fear; 

Such cares my mind could never bear. 

No princely pomp, nor wealthy store, 

No force to win a victory, 
No wily wit to salve a sore. 

No shape to win a lover's eye ; 
To none of these I yield as thrall, 
For why? my mind despiseth all. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 

I little have, yet seek no more ; 
They are but poor, though much they have ; 

And I am rich with little store ; 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lack, I lend ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's loss, 
I grudge not at another's gain ; 

No worldly wave my mind can toss ; 
1 brook that is another's bane. 

I fear no foe, nor fawn no friend ; 

I loath not life, nor dread mine end. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 

My conscience clear, my chief defence ; 
I never seek by bribes to please, 

Nor by desert to give offence; 
Thus do I live, thus will I die ; 
Would all did so as well as I ! 



217 

1 take no joy in earthly bliss ; 

I weigh not Cia3sus' wealth a straw ; 
For care, I care not what it is ; 

I fear not Fortune's fatal law. 
]Vly mind is such as may not move 
For beauty bright, or force of love. 

I wish but what I have at will ; 

I wander not to seek for more ; 
I like the plain, I climb no hill ; 

In greatest storms I sit on shore, 
And laugh at them that toil in vain 
To get what must be lost again. 

I kiss not where I wish to kill ; 

I feign not love where most I hate; 
I break no sleep to win my will ; 

I wait not at the mighty's gate ; 
I scorn no poor, 1 fear no rich ; 
I feel no want, nor have too much. 



The court, ne cart, I like ne loatlie ; 

Extremes are counted worst of all ; 
The golden mean betwixt them both 

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall ; 
This is my choice ; for why ? I find 
No wealth is like a quiet mind. 



19 



Sid 



AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
YARD— Gra?/. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, 

The plough-boy homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds j 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping ovvl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 
heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed. 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

Nor children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 



219 

Oft did tlie harvest to their sickle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their teams a-field I 

tlow bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
stroke 1 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour ; 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long drawn aisle and fretted 
vault, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust. 

Back to their mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 



220 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 

The dark unfathomed depths of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
Or waste its fragrance on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden,! that with dauntless 
breast 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest; 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
'To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the muses' flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect. 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

1 An English patriot, who resisted king Charles I.'s usurpation of 
power. 



221 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered 
muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind 1 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit should enquire thy fate. 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn. 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 

His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 
Of crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 
]9» 



222 

** One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, 
Along tlie heath, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 

" The next, with dirges due, in sad array 

Slow through the church-yard path we saw him 
borne ; 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 

He gave to misery all he had, a tear ; 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished,) 
a friend. 



No further seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



223 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.— Campbell. 

Ye Mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas ; 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze: 

Your glorious standard launch again, 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

The spirit of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! 

For the deck it was their field of fame. 

And ocean was their grave: 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 

Your manly hearts shall glow, — 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwark, — 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy tempests blow; 

When the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy tempests blow. 



224 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn, 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean warriors, 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow : 

When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



ON MUNGO PARK'S FINDING A TUFT OF GREEN 

MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT Edinburgh 

Christian Herald. 

The sun had reached its mid-day height. 
And poured down floods of burning light 

On Afric's burning land ; 
No cloudy veil obscured the sky, 
And the hot breeze that struggled by 

Was filled with glowing sand. 

No mighty rock upreared its head 
To bless the wanderer with its shade, 

In all the weary plain ; 
No palm trees, with refreshing green 
To glad the dazzled eyes, were seen — 

But one wide sandy main. 

Dauntless and daring was the mind, 
That left all home-born joys behind, 
Those deserts to explore ; 



225 

To trace the mighty Niger's course, 
And find it bubbling from its source 
In wilds untrod before. 

And ah ! shall we less daring show, 
Who nobler ends and motives know 

Than ever heroes dream ; 
Who seek to lead the savage mind 
The precious fountain head to find, 

Whence flows salvation's stream? 

Let peril, nakedness, and sword, 
Hot barren lands, and despot's sword, 

Our burning zeal oppose ; 
Yet, martyr like, we'll lift the voice, 
Bidding the wilderness rejoice, 

And blossom as the rose. 

Sad, faint, and weary, on tiie sand 
Our traveller sat him down ; his hand 

Covered his burning head ; 
Above, beneath, behind, around. 
No resting for the eye he found ; 

All nature seemed as dead. 

One tiny tuft of moss alone. 
Mantling with freshest green a stone. 

Fixed his delighted gaze; 
Through bursting tears of joy he smiled. 
And while he raised the tendril vvild. 

His lips o'erflowed with praise. 

Oh ! shall not He who keeps thee green, 
Here in the waste, unknown, unseen. 

Thy fellow exile save? 
He who commands the dew to feed 
Thy gentle flower, can surely lead 

Me from a scorching grave. 



226 

The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired, 
New courage all his bosom fired, 

And bore him safe along — 
Till, with the evening's cooling shade, 
He slept within the verdant glade, 

Lulled by the negro's song. 

Thus we in this world's wilderness, 
Where sin and sorrow — guilt — distress, 

Seem undisturbed to reign, 
May faint because we feel alone, 
With none to strike our favorite tone, 

And join our homeward strain. 

Yet often in the bleakest wild 

Of this dark world, some heaven-born child, 

Expectant of the skies, 
Amid the low and vicious crowd, 
Or in the dwellings of the proud, 

Meets our admiring eyes. 

From gazing on the tender flower. 
We lift our eye to Him whose power 

Hath all its beauty given ; 
Who in this atmosphere of death 
Hath given it life, and form, and breath, 

And brilliant hues of heaven. 

Our drooping faith, revived by sight, 
Anew her pinions plumes for flight, 

New hope distends the breast ; 
With joy we mount on eagle wing, 
With bolder tone our anthem sing. 

And seek the pilgrim's rest. 



227 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS— 

Mrs. Hemans. 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods, against a stormy sky, 
Their giant branches tost ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted came, 
Not with the roll of stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear, — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea ! 

And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang 
To the anthems of the free ! 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wavers foam. 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared-^ 

This was their welQome home ! 



228 

There were men with hoary hair, 

Amidst that pilgrim-band — 
Why had they come to wiliier there. 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 

— They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod ! 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God ! 



A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.— 

Willis. 

She had been told that God made all the stars 

That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood 

Watching the coming of the twilight on, 

As if it were a new and perfect world. 

And this were its first eve. How beautiful 

Must be the work of nature to a child 

In its first fresh impression ! Laura stood 

By the low window, with the silken lash 

Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 

Half parted with the new and strange delight, 



229 

Of beauty that she could not comprehend, 
And had not seen before. The purple folds 
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
Thjit looked so still and delicate above, 
Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve 
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
Stood looking at the west with that half smile 
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
Presently, in the edge of the last tint 
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 
To the first golden mellowness, a star 
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands, 
Her simple thought broke forth expressively — 
" Father, dear father, God has made a star." 



LOCHINVAR— Sco«. 

O, young Lochinvar has come out of the west. 
Through all the wide border his steed was the best; 
And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never Avas knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopt not for stone ; 
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none ; 
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 
The bride had consented — the gallant came late — 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 
Waste wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 
20 



230 

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ; 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 

" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar?" 

** I long wooed your daughter, — my suit you denied ; 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; 
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine 
To lead but one measure ; drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up ; 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, — 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her brother could bar — 
"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

plume, — 
And the bride-maidens whisper, "Twere better by far 
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochin- 
var." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
When they reached the hall door, and the charger 

stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, — 



231 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush and scaur; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young 
< Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Grscmes of the Netherby 

clan, — 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 

they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing, on Canobie Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 



THE SEASONS — Mrs. Barbauld. 

Who may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid, 
In light green robe with careless ease arrayed ? 
Her iiead is with a flowery garland crowned, 
And where she treads, fresh flowreis spring around. 
Her genial breath dissolves the gathered snow, 
Loosed from their icy chains the rivers flow : 
At sight of her tlie lambkins bound along. 
And each glad warbler trills his sweetest song; 
Their mates they choose, their breasts with love 

are filled, 
And all prepare their mossy nests to build ; 
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare 
The name and lineage of this smiling fair. 

Who from the south is this with lingering tread 
Advancing, in transparent garments clad? 
Her breath is hot and sultry ; now she loves 



232 

To seek the inmost shelter of the groves ; 
The chrystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams 
To quench the heat that preys upon her limbs. 
From her the brooks and wandering riv'lets fly; 
At her approach their currents quickly dry. 
Berries and every acid fruit she sips, 
To allay the fervor of her parching lips ; 
Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice, 
She loves, which orchards plenteously produce; 
The sun-burnt haymakers, the swain who shears 
The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears. 
At her approach, O be it mine to lie 
Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply ; 
Or with her let me rove at early morn, 
When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn. 
Or at soft twilight, when the flocks repose, 
And the bright star of evening mildly glows. 
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare 
The name and lineage of this blooming fair. 

Who may he be that next, with sober pace, 
Comes stealing on us 1 Sallow is bis face ; 
The grape's red blood distains his robe around ; 
His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound ; 
His hair hath just begun to fall away. 
The auburn blending with the mournful grey. 
The ripe brown nuts he scatters to the swain, 
He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train. 
The gun is heard, the trembling partridge bleeds; 
The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds. 
Who is he with tlie wheaten sheaf? Declare, 
If ye can tell, ye youths and maidens fair. 

Who is he from the north that speeds his way ? 
Thick furs and wool compose his warm array ! 
His cloak is closely folded ; bald his head ; 



233 

His beard of clear sharp icicles is made; 
By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs ; 
With skate-bound teet the frozen lake he skims. 
When he is by, with breath so piercing cold, 
No flovvret dares its tender buds unfold ; 
Nought can his powerful freezing touch withstand, 
And, should he smite you with his chilling hand, 
His magic influence you would fly in vain, 
But stiff and dead like marble you remain. 
Ye youths and. maidens, does he yet appear? 
Fast he approaches, and will soon be here. 
Declare, I pray you, tell me, if you can, 
The name and lineage of this aged man. 



TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS.— Lei^A Hunt. 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee. 
My little patient boy ! 
And balmy rest about thee 
Smooths off the day's annoy. 
1 sit me down, and think 
Of all thy winning ways ; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink. 
That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness. 
Thy thanks to all that aid. 
Thy heart, in pain and weakness, 
Of fancied faults afraid ; 
The little trembling hand 
That wipes thy quiet tears, — 
These, these are things that may demand 
Dread memories for years. 
20* 



234 

Sorrows I've had, severe ones 
I will not think of now ; 
And calmly, midst my dear ones, 
Have wasted with dry brow ; 
But when thy fingers press, 
And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear the gentleness, — 
The tears are in their bed. 

Ah ! firstborn of thy mother, 
When life and hope were new; 
Kind playmate of thy brother, 
Thy sister, father, too; 
My light where'er I go, 
My bird when prison bound, — 
My hand in hand companion, — no. 
My prayers shall hold thee round. 

To say " He has departed" — - 
" His voice" — " his face" — " is gone," 
To feel impatient-hearted, 
Yet feel we must bear on ; 
Ah ! I could not endure 
To whisper of such woe. 
Unless I felt this sleep ensure, 
That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping ! 
This silence too the while — 
Its very hush and creeping 
Seem whispering us a smile ; — 
Something divine and dim 
Seems going by one's ear. 
Like parting wings of Cherubim, 
Who say, " We've finished here." 



235 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.— H. K. White. 

When marshalled on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestud the sky ; 

One star alone, of all the train, 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 

Hark I hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
From every host, from every gem ; 

But one alone the Saviour speaks. 
It is the star of Bethlehem. 



Once on the raging seas I rode, 

The storm was loud, the night was dark, 
The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed 

The wind that tossed my foundering bark. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze. 

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem, 

When suddenly a star arose ; 
It was the star of Bethlehem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all, 
It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 

And through the storm, and danger's thrall, 
It led me to the port of peace. 

Now safely moored — my perils o'er — 
I'll sing, first in night's diadem. 

Forever, and forevermore, 

The star, the star of Bethlehem ! 



236 



THE DIRGE IN CYMBELmE— Collins. 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 

But shepherd lads assemble here. 
And youthful virgins own their love. 

No withered witch shall here be seen, 
No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 

The female fays shall haunt the green, 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 

The red-breast oft at evening's hours 
Shall kindly lend his little aid, 

With hoary moss, and gathered flowers. 
To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds, and beating rain, 
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell ; 

Or 'midst the chase on every plain. 

The tender thought on thee shall dwell ; 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore. 
For thee the tear be duly shed ; 

Beloved, till life can charm no more; 
And mourned, till Pity's self be dead. 



237 



FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

Many a year is in its grave, 
Since I crossed this restless wave ; 
And the evening, fair as ever, 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

Then, in this same boat, beside. 
Sat two comrades, old and tried ^ 
One with ail a father's truth, 
One with all the fire of youth. 

One on earth in silence wrought, 
And his grave in silence sought; 
But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm ! 

So, whene'er I turn my eye 

Back upon the days gone by. 

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, 

Friends, who closed their course before me. 

Yet what binds us, friend to friend, 
But that soul with soul can blend ? 
Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
Let us walk in soul once more ! 

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee ; 

Take — I give it willingly ; 

For, invisibly to thee. 

Spirits twain have crossed with me ! 



238 



THAT EACH THING IS HURT OF ITSELF— 0/d 

English Poetry. 

Why fearest thou the outward foe, 

When thou thyself thy harm doth feed? 

Of grief or hurt, of pain or woe, 

Within each thing is sown the seed. 

So fine was ngver yet the cloth, 
No smith so hard his iron did beat, 

But the one consumed was by moth, 
T' other with canker all to fret. 

The knotty oak, and wainscoat old. 

Within doth eat the silly worm ; 
Even so, a mind in envy rolled, 

Always within itself doth burn. 

Thus every thing that nature wrought, 
Within itself his hurt doth bear ; 

No outward harm need to be sought. 
Where enemies be within so near. 



THE KING OF THE CROCODILES.— SowtAey. 

" Now, woman, why without your veil ? 
And wherefore do you look so pale ? 
And, woman, why do you groan so sadly, 
And wherefore beat your bosom madly ?" 



239 

" Oh, I have lost my darling boy, 
In whom my soul had all its joy ; 
And I for sorrow have torn rny veil, 
And'sorrow hath made my very heart pale. 

" Oh, I have lost my darling child, 
And that's the loss that makes me wild ; 
He stooped to the river down to drink, 
And there was a crocodile by the brink. 

" He did not venture in to swim, 

He only stooped to drink at the brim ; 

But under the reeds the crocodile lay, 

And struck with his tail and swept him away. 

" Now take me in your boat, I pray. 
For down the river lies my way. 
And me to the Reed Island bring, 
For I will go to the crocodile king. 

"The King of the Crocodiles never does wrong- 
He has no tail so stiff and strong — 
He has no tail to strike and slay — 
But he has ears to hear what I say. 

" And to the king I will complain, 
How my poor child was wickedly slain ; 
The king of the crocodiles he is good, 
And I shall have the murderer's blood." 

The man replied, " No, woman, no, 
To the Island of Reeds I will not go ; 
I would not for any worldly thing. 
See the face of the crocodile king." 



240 

" Then lend me now your little boat, 
And I will down the river float. 
I tell thee that no earthly thing 
Shall keep me from the crocodile king." 

The woman she leapt into the boat, 
And down the river alone did she float ; 
And fast with the stream the boat proceeds, 
And now she is come to the Island of Reeds. 

The King of the Crocodiles there was seen — 
He sat upon the eggs of the Q,ueen, — 
And all around, a numerous rout, 
The young Prince Crocodiles crawled about. 

The woman shook every limb with fear, 
As she to the Crocodile King came near. 
For never man without fear and awe, 
The face of his Crocodile Majesty saw. 

She fell upon her bended knee, 

And said, " Oh king, have pity on me, 

For I have lost my darling child, 

And that's the loss that makes me wild. 

" A crocodile ate him for his food ; 
Now let me have the murderer's blood, 
Let me have vengeance for my boy. 
The only thing that can give me joy. 

" I know that you, Sire ! never do wrong, 
You have no tail so stiff" and strong. 
You have no tail to strike and slay. 
But you have ears to hear what I say." 



241 

" You have done well," the king replies, 
And fixed on her his little eyes ; 
" Good woman, yes, you have done right, 
But-you have not described me quite. 

*' I have no tail to strike and slay, 
And I have ears to hear what you say ; 
I have teeth, moreover, as you may see, 
And I will make a meal of thee." 



BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE— Wolfe. 

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sod with our bayonets turning, — 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we bound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few — and short, were the prayers we said. 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

21 



242 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
his head. 
And we far away on the billow 1 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 

But nothing he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun, 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, — 
But we left hira alone with his glory. 



THE SUMMER EVENING.— Ckrc. 

The sinking sun is taking leave. 
And sweetly gilds the edge of eve, 
While huddling clouds of purple dye 
Gloomy hang the western sky ; 
Crows crowd croaking overhead, 
Hastening to the woods to bed ; 
Cooing sits the lonely dove. 
Calling home her absent love ; 
From the hay-cock's moistened heaps, 



243 

Startled frogs take vaulting leaps, 
And along the shaven mead, 
Jumping travellers, they proceed; 
Quick the dewy grass divides, 
Moistening sweet their speckled sides. 
From the grass or floweret's cup, 
Quick the dew-drop bounces up. 
Now the blue fog creeps along, 
And the bird 's forgot his song ; 
Flowers now sleep within their hoods, 
Daisies button into buds ; 
From soiling dew the buttercup 
Shuts his golden jewels up : 
And the rose and woodbine, they 
Wait again the smiles of May. 
'Neath the willow's wavy boughs, 
Dolly, singing, milks her cows : 
While the brook, as bubbling by. 
Joins in murmuring melody. 
Swains to fold their sheep begin, 
Dogs loud barking drive them in. 
Hedgers now along the road 
Homeward bend beneath their load ; 
And, from the long furrowed seams, 
Ploughmen loose their weary teams : 
Ball, with urging lashes mealed, 
Still so slow to drive a-field. 
Eager blundering from the plough, 
Wants no whip to drive him now : 
At the stable door he stands. 
Looking round for friendly hands 
To loose the door its fastening pin. 
And let him with his corn begin. 
The night-wind now with sooty wings. 
In the cotter's chimney sings : 
Now, as stretching o'er the bed, 



244 

Soft I raise my drowsy head, 
Listening to the ushering charms 
That shake the elm tree's massy arms ; 
Till sweet slumbers stronger creep, 
Deeper darkness stealing round ; 
Then as rocked, I sink to sleep, 
Mid the wild wind's lulling sound. 



THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. —Southey. 

Sweet to the morning traveller 

The song amid the sky, 
Where twinkling in the dewy light, 

The sky-lark soars on high. 

And cheering to the traveller 
The gales that round him play, 

When faint and heavily he drags 
Along his noontide way. 

And when beneath the unclouded sun 

Full wearily toils he, 
The flowing water makes to him 

A soothing melody. 

And when the evening light decays, 

And all is calm around, 
There is sweet music to his ear, 

In the distant sheep bell's sound. 

But oh 1 of all delightful sounds. 

Of evening or of morn. 
The sweetest is the voice of Love, 

That welcomes his return. 



245 



ADORATION OF THE DEITY IN THE MIDST OF 
HIS WORKS.— r.Jtfoore. 

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine, 
My temple, Lord ! that arch of thine : 
My censer's breath the mountain airs, 
And silent thoughts my only prayers. 

My choir shall be the moonlit waves, 
When murmuring homeward to their caves, 
Or when the stillness of the sea. 
Even more than music, breathes of Thee. 

I'll seek by day some glade unknown, 
All light and silence, like thy throne ! 
And the pale stars shall be, at night. 
The only eyes that watch my rite. 

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, 
Shall be my pure and shining book. 
Where I shall read, in words of flame. 
The glories of thy wondrous name. 

I'll read thy anger in the rock 

That clouds awhile the day beam's track. 

Thy mercy in the azure hue 

Of sunny brightness breaking through ! 

There's nothing bright, above, below. 
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, 
But in its light my soul can see 
Some feature of the Deity. 
21* 



246 

There's nothing dark, below, above, 
But in its gloom I trace thy love, 
And meekly wait that moment, when 
Thy touch shall turn all bright again. 



CHARADE.— By Praed. 

Come from my First, aye come ! 

For the battle hour is nigh : 

And the screaming trump and thundering drum, 

Are calling thee to die ! 

Fight, as thy father fought ! 

Fall, as thy father fell ! 

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought ; — 

So onward and farewell. 

Toll ye my Second, toll ! 

Fling wide the flambeau's light, 

And sing the hymn for a parted soul 

Beneath the silent night. 

With the wreath upon his head. 

And the cross upon his breast. 

Let the prayer we said, and the tear be shed; — 

So — take him to his rest ! 

Call ye my Whole — aye — call 

The lord of lute and lay ! 

And let him greet the sable pall. 

With a noble song to-day ! 

Aye, call him by his name ! 

Nor fitter hand may crave 

To light the flame of a soldier's fame 

On the turf of a soldier's grave ! 

Answer. — Campbell. 



247 



YOUTH AND AGE.— Southey. 

With cheerful step the traveller 

Pursues his early way, 
When first the dimly dawning east 

Reveals the rising day. 

He bounds along his craggy road, 
He hastens up the height, 

And all he sees and all he hears, 
Administer delight. 

And if the mist, retiring slow, 
Roll round its wavy white. 

He thinks the morning vapors hide 
Some beauty from his sight. 

But when behind the western clouds, 

Departs the fading ray, 
How wearily the traveller 

Pursues his evening way. 

Sorely along the craggy road 
His painful footsteps creep, 

And slow, with many a feeble pause, 
He labors up the steep. 

And if the mists of night close round, 
They fill his soul with fear ; 

He dreads some unseen precipice. 
Some hidden danger near. 



348 

So cheerfully does youth begin 
Life's pleasant morning stage ; 

Alas ! the evening traveller feels 
The fears of wary Age. 



WINTER.— Burns. 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain do blow ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snow : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars from bank to brae; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast, 

The joyless winter day, 
Let others fear — to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please. 

Their fate resembles mine. 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil ; 
Here, firm, I rest — they must be best. 

Because they are Tht/ will ! 
Then all I want, (Oh, do Thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



249 



TO THE SKY-LARK. 



Sweetest warbler of the skies, 

Soon as morning's purple dyes 

O'er the eastern mountains float, 

Wakened by thy merry note, 

Through the fields of yellow corn. 

That Mersey's winding banks adorn, 

O'er green meads I gaily pass, 

And lightly brush the dewy grass. 

I love to hear thy matin lay 

And warbling wild notes die away ; 

I love to mark thy upward flight, 

And see thee lessen from my sight; 

Then, ended thy sweet madrigal, 

Sudden, swift, I see thee fall. 

With wearied wing and beating breast, 

Near thy chirping nestlings nest. 

Ah ! who that hears thee carol free 

Those jocund notes of liberty, 

And sees thee independent soar, 

With gladsome wing, the blue sky o'er ; 

In wiry cage would thee restrain, 

To pant for liberty in vain ; 

And see thee 'gainst thy prison grate 

Thy little wings indignant beat. 

And peck and flutter round and round, 

Thy narrow, lonely, hated bound ; 

And yet not ope thy prison door, 

To give thee liberty once more. 

None ! none ! but he, whose vicious eye 

The charms of nature can't enjoy ; 

Who dozes those sweet hours away, 

When thou begin'st thy merry lay ; 



250 

And, since his lazy limbs refuse 

To tread the meadow's morning dews, 

And there thy early wild notes hear, 

He keeps thee lonely prisoner. 

Not such am I sweet warbler ; no, 

For should thy strains as sweetly flow, 

As sweetly flow, as gaily sound. 

Within thy prison's wiry bound. 

As when thou soar'st with lover's pride, 

And pour'st thy wild notes far and wide. 

Yet still deprived of every scene. 

The yellow lawn, the meadow green, 

The hawthorn bush, besprent with dew, 

The skyey lake, the mountain blue, 

Not half the charms thou'dst have for me, 

As ranging wide at liberty. 



LAUNCHING INTO ETERNITY.— rTaW*. 

It was a brave attempt! adventurous he, 
Who in the first ship broke the unknown sea : 
And, leaving his dear native shores behind, 
Trusted his life to the licentious wind. 
I see the surging brine ; the tempest raves; 
He on the pine-plank rides across the waves. 
Exulting on the edge of thousand gaping graves : 
He steers the winged boat, and shifts the sails, 
Conquers the flood, and manages the gales. 

Such is the soul that leaves this mortal land 
Fearless when the great Master gives command. 
Death is the storm ; she smiles to hear it roar, 
And bids the tempest waft her from the shore ; 
Then with a skilful helm she sweeps the seas, 
And manages the raging storm with ease ; 



251 

(Her faith can govern death;) she spreads her 

wings 
Wide to the wind, and as she sails she sings, 
And loses by degrees the sight of mortal things, j 
As the shores lessen, so her joys arise, 
The waves roll gentler, and the tempest dies : 
Now vast eternity tills all her sight, 
She floats on the broad deep with infinite del 
The seas forever calm, the skies forever b 



slight, > 
bright. ) 



ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.— 
Mrs. Hemans. 

And was thy home, pale withered thing, 
Beneath the rich blue southern sky 1 

Wert thou a nurseling of the spring, 
The winds, and suns of glorious Italy ? 

Those suns in golden light, e'en now, 

Look o'er the poet's lovely grave, 
Those winds are breathing soft, but thou 

Answering their whisper, there no more shalt 
wave. 

The flowers o'er Posilippo's^ brow, 

May cluster in their purple bloom, 
But on the o'ershadowing ilex bough, 

Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb. 

1 A mountain skirting the shores of the Bay of Naples, on one of 
the most beautiful heights of which stands the tomb of Virgil. 



253 



Thy place is void — Oh ! none on earth, 
This crowded earth, may so remain, 

Save that which souls of loftiest birth 

Leave when they part, their brighter home to 
gain. 

Another leaf ere now hath sprung, 

On the green stem which once was thine — 

When shall another strain be sung 
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a 
shrine ? 



I 



THE MAY QUEEN Tennyson. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear. 

To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the blithe 
New Year ; 

Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest mer- 
riest day. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none 
so bright as mine ; 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caro- 
line ; 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say, 

So I'm to be the Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never 

wake. 
If ye do not call me loud when the day begins to break ; 



253 

But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and gar- 
lands fray ; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
(iueen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye I should see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge, beneath the hazle 
tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yes- 
terday — 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in 

white. 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash o' light. 
They call me cruel hearted, but 1 care not what they 

say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, — but that can never 

be ; 
They say his heart is breaking, mother, — but what is 

that to me ? 
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day — 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 
And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the 

Queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far 

away. 
And Tm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 
22 



254 

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy 

bowers, 
And by the meadow trenches blow the faint sweet 

cuckoo flowers, 
And the wild marsh marigold shines like fire in swamps 

and hollows gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the 
meadow-grass, 

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as 
they pass, 

There will not be a drop o' rain the whole of the live- 
long day, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 
And the cowslip and the crow-foot are over all the hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance 

and play. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, 

mother dear. 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the blythe 

New Year, 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest 

day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 



255 



NEW YEAR-S EYE.— Tennyson. 

If you're waking, call me early, call rae early, mother 

dear, 
For I would see the sun rise, upon the glad New Year, 
It is the last New Year that I shall ever see, 
Then ye may lay me low in the mould, and think no 

more o' me. 

To night I saw the sunset ; he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace 

of mind ; 
And the New Year's coming up, mother, but I shall 

never see 
The may upon the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a merry 

day ! 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 

Q,ueen o' May ; 
And we danced about the May-pole, and in the hazle 

copse, 
Till Charles's-wain* came out, above the tall white 

chimney tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills ; the frost is on the 

pane ; 
I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again ; 
I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on 

high, 
I long to see a flower so, before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm tree 
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

* A constellation in the Heavens. 



256 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer 

o'er the wave, 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering 

grave. 

Upon the chancel casement and upon that grave o' 

mine, 
In the early, early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world 

is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 

waving light 
Ye'll never see me more in the long gray fields at 

night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow 

cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass and the bulrush 

in the pool. 

Ye'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn 
shade. 

And ye'll come sometimes and see me where I am 
lowly laid ; 

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when 
you pass, 

With your feet above my head in the long and pleas- 
ant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but ye'll forgive me 

now ; 
Ye'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and 

brow; 



I 



257 

Nay — nay — ye must not weep, nor let your grief be 

Avild, 
Ye shall not fret for me, mother, ye have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting 

place ; 
Though ye'U not see me, mother, I shall look upon 

your face ; 
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what 

ye say, 
And be often and often with you, when ye think I'm far 

away. 

Good night, good night, when I have said good night 
for evermore. 

And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the 
door, 

Don't let EfRe come to see me till my grave be grow- 
ing green : 

She'll be a better child to you, than I have ever been. 

She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor; 
Let her take 'em ; they are her's ; I shall never garden 

more ; 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that 

I set 
About the parlor window, and the box of mignonette. 

Good night, sweet mother ! call me when it begins to 

dawn, 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother 

dear. 

22* 



258 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.— Wordsworth. 

She was a Phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 
Like Twilight's too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
A dancing shape, an Image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human Nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise,^blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A Traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an Angel light. 



259 



THE LOST PLEIAD— J»/r5. Hemans. 

And is there glory from the heavens departed ? 
— Oh ! void unmarked ! — thy sisters of the sky 
Still hold their place on high, 
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, 
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye. 

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night ? 
She wears her crown of old magnificence, 
Though thou art exiled thence — 
No desert seems to part those urns of light, 
'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. 

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning — 
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free ; 
And from the silvery sea 
To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for 
thee. 

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place 
E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, 
Swept by the wind away 1 
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race. 
And was there power to smite them with decay ? 

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? 
Bowed be our hearts to think of what we are, 
When from its height afar 
A world sinks thus — and yon majestic heaven 
Shines not the less for that one vanished star ! 



260 



4 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.— Jl/r*. Southey. 

Tread softly — bow the head — 

In reverent silence bow — 
No passing bell doth toll — 
Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 

Stranger ! however great, 

With lowly reverence bow ; 
There's one in that poor shed — 
One by that paltry bed — 
Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggar's roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep his state ; 
Enter ! no crowds attend — 
Enter ! no guards defend 
This palace gate. 

That pavement damp and cold, 

No smiling courtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands 
Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound — 

An infant wail alone ; — 
A sob suppressed — agen 
That short deep gasp, and then 
The parting groan. 

Oh ! change — oh ! wondrous change — 
Burst are the prison bars — 



261 

This moment there, so low, 
So agonized, and now 

Beyond the stars ! 

Oh ! change, stupendous change ! 

There lies the soulless clod : 
The sun eternal breaks — 
The new immortal wakes — 
Wakes with his God. 



CORONACH.i— StV W. Scott. 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest, 

Like a summer dried fountain, 

When our need was the sorest. 

The fount, reappearing. 

From the rain-drops shall borrow, 

But to us comes no cheering. 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 
Takes the ears that are hoary, 
But the voice of the weeper 
"W^ails manhood in glory ; 
The autumn winds rushing, 
Waft the leaves that are searest. 
But our flower was in flushing. 
When blighting was nearest. 

1 Funeral Song. 



262 

Fleet foot on the corei/ 
Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 
How sound is thy shimber! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 
Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 
Thou art gone and forever ! 



AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD.— Watts. 

Sweet flocks, whose soft enameled wing 

Swift and gently cleaves the sky, 

Whose charming notes address the spring 

With an artless harmony ; 

Lovely minstrels of the field, 

Who in leafy shadows sit, 

And your wondrous structures build. 

Awake your tuneful voices with the dawning light ; 

To nature's God your first devotions pay, 

Ere you salute the rising day, — 
'Tis he calls up the sun, and gives him every ray. 

Serpents, who o'er the meadows slide. 
And wear upon your shining back 
Numerous ranks of gaudy pride, 
Which thousand mingling colors make ; 

Let the fierce glances of your eyes 
Rebate their baleful fire ; 

In harmless play twist and unfold 

The volumes of your scaly gold ; 
That rich embroidery of your gay attire. 

Proclaims your Maker kind and wise. 

1 The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies. 



263 

Insects and mites, of mean degree, 
That swarm in myriads o'er the land, 
Moulded by Wisdom's artful hand, 
And curled and painted with a various dye ; 
In' your innumerable forms 
Praise him that wears the ethereal crown, 
And bends his lofty counsels down 
To despicable worms. 



TO THE EVENING WmD.—Brtjant. 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play. 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 

Roughening their crests, and scattering high 
their spray. 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! 

Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; 

And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. 

Go forth, into the gathering shade ; go forth, 

God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest. 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest. 



264 

Summoning from the innumerable boughs 
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast : 

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 
And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the 
grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shall kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 
His temples, while his breathing grows more 
deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed, 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change, 

Which is the life of nature, shall restore, 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more j 

Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; 

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 



THE ERL KING. 

From the German of Goethe. 



Who rideth so late through the night wind wild? 

It is the father with his child ; 

He has the little one well in his arm ; 

He holds him safe, and he folds him warm. 



265 

" My son, why hidest thy face so shy?" 
** Seest thou not, father, the Erl King nigh ? 
The Erien King, with train and crown V 
" It is a wreath of mist, my son." 

" Come, lovely boy, come, go with me ; 

Such merry plays I will play with thee ; 

Many a bright flower grows on the strand, 

And my mother has many a gay garment at hand." 

*' My father, my father, and dost thou not hear, 
What the Erl King whispers in my ear 1" — 
" Be quiet, my darling, — be quiet, my child ; 
Through withered leaves the wind howls wild." 

" Come, lovely boy, wilt thou go with me? 
My daughters fair shall wait on thee ; 
My daughters their nightly revels keep; 
They'll sing, and they'll dance, and they'll rock 
thee to sleep." 

" My father, my father, and seest thou not. 
The Erl King's daughters in yon dim spot?" 
" My son, my son, I see and I know 
'Tis the old gray willow that shimmers^ so." 

** 1 love thee ; thy beauty has ravished my sense ; 
And, willing or not, I will carry thee hence." 
" O father, the Erl King now puts forth his arm! 
O father, the Erl King has done me harm I" 

The father shudders ; he hurries on ; 
And faster he holds his moaning son ; 
He reaches his home with fear and dread, 
And lo ! in his arms the child was deac^! 

1 Gleams with an uncertain light. 

23 



266 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS— Barn*. 

Now nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the chrystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn. 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bower, 

Makes woodland-echoes ring ; 
The mavis wild wi' many a note. 

Sings drowsy day to rest ; 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk white is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets among ; 
But I, the queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison strong. 

I was the queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Full lightly rose I in the morn. 

As blythe lay down at e'en ; 



267 

And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands. 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false vvoman,^ 

My sister and my foe ! 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That through thy soul shall go : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that drops on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son l'^ my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
•God keep thee frae thy mother's foes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, may summer suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn-winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house of death 

Let winter round me rave; 
And the next flowers, that deck the spring. 

Bloom on my peaceful grave. 

1 Elizabeth, queen of England, wlio unjustly detained her in prison. 
2 James I. king or England. 



268 



AVARICE — George Herbert. 

Money, tliou bane of bliss, and source of woe, 
Whence comest thou, that thou art so fresh and 

fine? 
I know thy parentage is base and low ; 
Man found thee poor and dirty in a mine. 

Surely thou didst so little contribute 
To this great kingdom, which thou now hast got, 
That he was fain, when thou wast destitute. 
To dig thee out of thy dark cave and grot. 

Then forcing thee, by fire he made thee bright ; 
Nay, thou hast got the face of man ; for we 
Have with our stamp and seal transferred our right. 
Thou art the man, and man but dross to thee. 

]\Ian calleth thee his wealth, wlio made thee rich, 
And while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch. , 



THE TRUMPET — Mrs. Hemans. 

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, 

Light up the beacon pyre ! 
—A hundred hills have seen the brand 

And waved the sign of fire. 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast — 
And hark ! — was that the sound of seas ? 

— A king to war went past. 



269 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call, 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son, 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en for the marriage altar crowned, 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear, 

By earthly clarion spread ! — 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead ! 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE —Sir W.Scott. 

Enchantress, farewell ! who so oft has decoyed me, 
At the close of the evening through woodlands to 
roam, 
Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me 

Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. 
Farewell! and take with thee thy numbers wild speak- 
ing, 
The language alternate of rapture and woe ; 
Oh ! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are 
breaking, 
The pang that I feel at our parting can know. 

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came 
sorrow, 

23* 



270 

Or pale disappointment to darken my way, 
What voice was like thine, that could sing of to- 
morrow, 

Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day ! 
But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning, 

The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage ; 
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining, 

The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. 

'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, 

To sing how a warrior lay stretched on the plain ; 
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing. 

And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; 
As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers, 

To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, 
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers, — 

Farewell then, enchantress ! I meet thee no more ! 



TRUE RICHES.— Watts. 

I am not concerned to know 
What, to-morrow, fate will do ; 
*Tis enough that I can say, 
I've possessed myself to-day : 
Then if haply midnight death 
Seize my flesh, and stop my breath, 
Yet to-morrow I shall be 
Heir to the best part of me. 

Glittering stones, and golden things, 
Wealth and honors that have wings, 
Ever fluttering to be gone, 
I could never call my own : 
Riches that the world bestows, 
She can take, and I can lose ; 



271 

But the treasures that are mine, 
Lie afar beyond her line. 
When I view my spacious soul, 
And survey myself a whole, 
And enjoy myself alone, 
I'm a kingdom of my own. 

I've a mighty part within, 
That the world hath never seen ; 
Rich as Eden's happy ground, 
And with choicer plenty crowned. 
Here on all the shining boughs. 
Knowledge fair and useless grows ; 
On the same young flowery tree 
All the seasons you may see ; 
Notions in the bloom of light, 
Just disclosing to the sight ; 
Here are thoughts of larger growth, 
Ripening into solid truth ; 
Fruits refined, of noble taste ; 
Seraphs feed on such repast. 
Here in a green and shady grove. 
Streams of pleasure mix with love ; 
There, beneath the smiling skies, 
Hills of contemplation rise ; 
Now upon some shining top 
Angels light, and call me up; 
I rejoice to raise my feet. 
Both rejoice when there we meet. 

There are endless beauties more 
Earth hath no resemblance for ; 
Nothing like them round the pole, 
Nothing can describe the soul : 
'Tis a region half unknown, 
That has treasures of its own, 
More remote from public view, 
Than the bowels of Peru ; 



272 

Broader 'tis, and brighter far, 
Than the golden Indies are ; 
Ships that trace the watery stage 
Cannot coast it in an age ! 
Harts, or horses, strong and fleet, 
Had they^vvings to help their feet, 
Could not run it half vvay o'er 
In ten thousand days or more. 
Yet the silly wandering mind, 
Loth to be too much confined, 
Roves and takes her daily tours. 
Coasting round the narrow shores, 
Narrow shores of flesh and sense, 
Picking shells and pebbles thence ; 
Or she sits at fancy's door. 
Calling shapes and shadows to her. 
Foreign visits still receiving, 
And to herself a stranger living. 
Never, never would she buy 
Indian dust, or Tyrian dye. 
Never trade abroad for more. 
If she saw her native store ; 
If her inward worth were known, 
She might ever live alone. 



THE MOSS ROSE. 



The Angel of the flowers one day. 
Beneath a rose tree, sleeping lay — 
That spirit to whose charge is given 
To bathe young buds in dew from heaven. 
Awakening from his slight repose, 
The angel whispered to the Rose, 



273 

** Oh ! fondest object of my care, 
Still fairest found where all is fair, 
For the sweet shade thou hast given me, 
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee." 
Then said the Rose,, with deepened glow, 
" On me another grace bestow" — 
The Angel paused in silent thought — 
What grace was there the flower had not ? 
'Twas but a moment, o'er the Rose 
A veil of moss the Angel throws. 
And, robed in Nature's simplest weed, 
Could there a flower that Rose exceed ? 



TO THE MORNING STAR.— Carey. 

From chambers brighter than the day. 
Star of the morning, thou art come 

To gild with glory's opening ray 

The front of Heaven's imperial throne. 

Thou break'st upon the dazzled view 
In all the eastern splendor bright, 

Thy beamy locks are bathed in dew, 
Thy skirts are dipped in orient light. 

The sailor feels his bosom swell. 
And hails thy lustre with a song ; 

The sea-nymphs smite the sounding shell 
With joy, their coral caves among. 

But oh ! thou bring'st no joy to me ; 

No transports in my bosom rise, 
To mark thy brightening path, and see 

The day-spring crimson o'er the skies. 



274 

Yet I have loved with lingering pace, 
Where high the green hill lifts its head. 

To rove at vernal dawn, and trace 
The new-born glories as they spread. 

'Twas when for me the hamlet smiled 
Beneath the waving greenwood tree ; 

When friendship all my care beguiled, 
And love awoke my heart to glee. 

But now no dear connubial home, 
No friend shall ever bless me more, 

With many a weary step I roam, 
An exile from my native shore. 

Why should I joy in Phoebus' ray. 

Who never more shall comfort prove? 

It only shines to point the way 

That leads me from the land I love. 



ON TIME. 



Say, is there aught that can convey 
An image of its transient stay ; 
'Tis an hand's-breadth ; 'tis a tale ; 
'Tis a vessel under sail; 
'Tis a conqueror's straining steed; 
'Tis a shuttle in its speed ; 
'Tis an eagle in its way 
Darting down upon its prey ; 
'Tis an arrow in its flight 
Mocking the pursuing sight ; 
*Tis a vapor in the air ; 



275 

'Tis a whirlwind rushing there ; 
'Tis a short-lived fading flower; 
'Tis a rainbow on a shower ; 
'Tis a momentary ray 
Smiling in a winter's day. 
'Tis a torrent's troubled stream ; 
'Tis a shadow ; 'tis a dream ; 
'Tis the closing watch of night, 
Dying at approaching light ; 
'Tis a landscape vainly gay. 
Painted upon crumbling clay ; 
'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires; 
'Tis a smoke that quick expires ; 
'Tis a bubble ; 'tis a sigh ; 
Be prepared, O man, to die ! 



A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED.— jl/rs. Hcmans. 

A monarch^ on his death-bed lay — 

Did censers waft perfume, 
And soft lamps from their silvery ray, 

Through his proud chambers gloom ? 
He lay upon a green-sward bed. 

Beneath a darkening sky — 
A lone tree waving o'er his head, 

A swift stream rolling by. 

Had he then fallen, as warriors fall. 
Where spear strikes fire from spear ? 

Was there a banner for his pall, 
A buckler for his bier ? 

1 Albert of Hapsburg, Emperor of Germany, who was assassinated 
by his nephew, was left to die by the way-side, and was supported 
in his laist moments by a peasant-girl, who happened to be passing. 



276 

Not so — nor cloven shields nor helms 

Had strewn the bloody sod, 
Where he, the helpless lord of realms, 

Yielded his soul to God. 

Were there not friends, with words of cheer, 

And friendly vassals nigh? 
And priests, the crucifix to rear 

Before the fading eye? 
A peasant girl, that royal head 

Upon her bosom laid ; 
And, shrinking not for woman's dread. 

The face of death surveyed. 

Alone she sat — from hill and wood 

Red sank the mournful sun ; 
Fast gushed the fount of noble blood, 

Treason its worst had done ! 
With her long hair she vainly pressed 

The wounds, to stanch their tide — 
Unknown, on that meek humble breast. 

Imperial Albert died. 



VIRTUE — George Herbert. 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 
The dew shall weep thy fall to night : 

For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 

And thou must die. 



I 



277 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 
Thy music shows ye liave your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 



HYMN OF THE CHEROKEE INDIAN.. 
/. McLellan, jr. 

Like the shadows in the stream, 
Like the evanescent gleam 
Of the twilight's failing blaze, 
Like the fleeting years and days, 
Like all things that soon decay, 
Pass the Indian tribes away. 

Indian son, and Indian sire ! 

Lo ! the embers of your fire, 

On the wigwarm hearth, burn low. 

Never to revive its glow 1 

And the Indian's heart is ailing. 

And the Indian's blood is failing. 

Now the hunter's bow 's unbent, 
And his arrows all are spent ! 
Like a very little child, 
Is the red man of the wild ; 
To his day there'll dawn no morrow ; 
Therefore is he full of sorrow. 
24 



278 

From his hills the stag is fled, 
And the fallow deer are dead, 
And the wild beasts of the chase 
Are a lost and perished race ; 
And the birds have left the mountain, 
And the fishes the clear fountain, 

Indian woman, to thy breast 
Closer let thy babe be pressed, 
For thy garb is thin and old, 
And the winter wind is cold ; 
On thy homeless head it dashes ; 
Round thee the grim lightning flashes. 

We, the rightful lords of yore, 
Are the rightful lords no more ; 
Like the silver mist we fail, 
Like the red leaves in the gale, — 
Fail like shadows, when the dawning 
Waves the bright flag of the morning. 

By the river's lonely marge 
Rotting is the Indian barge ; 
And his hut is ruined now, 
On the rocky mountain-brow ; 
The fathers' bones are all neglected. 
And the children's hearts dejected. 

Therefore, Indian people, flee 

To the farthest western sea ; 

Let us yield our pleasant land 

To the stranger's stronger hand ; 

Red men and their realms must sever } 

They forsake them, and forever ! 



279 



TO A SKY-LARK.— Wordstcorth. 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound 1 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 

To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
Mount, daring warbler ! — that love prompted strain 
('Twixt thee and thine a never failing bond,) 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege I to sing 
All independent of the leafy spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood, — 
A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
Of harmony, with instinct more divine : 
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 
True to the kindred points of heaven and home ! 



THE EVENING RAINBOW.— Sow/Acy. 

Mild arch of promise ! on the evening sky 
Thou shinest fair, with many a lovely ray, 
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye 
Delights to linger on thee ; for the day, 
Changeful and many weathered, seemed to smile, 
Flashing brief s|)Iendor through its clouds a while, 
That deepened dark anon, and fell in rain. 



280 

But pleasant is it now to pause, and view 

Thy various tints of frail and watery iiue, 

And think the storm shall not return again. 

Such is the smile that piety bestows 

On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace, 

Departing gently from a world of woes, 

Anticipates tlie realm where sorrows cease. 



BOOK OF THE WORLD.— Drummond. 

Of this fair volume which we '' World" do name, 
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, 
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame, 
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare ; 
Find out his power, — which wildest powers doth 

tame, — 
His providence, — extending every where, — 
His justice, — which proud rebels doth not spare, — 
In every page, — no period of the same ! 
But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold. 
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best, 
On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold ; 
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, 
It is some picture on the margin wrought. 



TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.— Elliott. 

Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows, 

Wild bramble of the brake ! 
So, put forth thy small white rose ; 

I love it for his sake. 



281 

Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow 

O'er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 

Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 
For dull the eye, the heart is dull 

That cannot feel how fair, 
Amid ail beauty beautiful. 

Thy tender blossoms are! 
How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 

How rich thy branchy stem ! 
How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 

And thou sing'st hymns to them ; 
While silent showers are falling slow, 

And 'mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough, 

Lone whispering through the bush! 
The primrose to the grave is gone ; 

The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The violet by the moss'd gray stone 

Hath laid her weary head ; 
But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, 

In all their beauteous power. 
The fresh green days of life's fair spring, 

And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
Scorned bramble of the brake ! once more 

Thou bid'st me be a boy. 
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, 

In freedom and in joy. 

24* 



282 



4 



LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GhE^.— Wilson. 

To whom belongs this valley fair, 
That sleeps beneath the filmy air, 

Even like a living thing 1 
Silent — as infant at the breast — 
Save a still sound that speaks of rest. 

That streamlet's murmuring I 

The heavens appear to love this vale ; 
Here clouds with scarce-seen motion sail, 

Or, mid the silence lie ! 
By that blue arch, this beauteous earth 
Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth, 

Seems bound unto the sky. 

O ! that this lovely vale were mine, 
Then, from glad youth to calm decline, 

My years would gently glide ; 
Hope would rejoice in endless dreams, 
And memory's oft returning gleams 

By peace be sanctified. 

There would unto my soul be given. 
From presence of that gracious heaven, 

A piety sublime ! 
And thoughts would come of mystic mood, 
To make in this deep solitude 

Eternity of time 1 

And did I ask to whom belonged 
This vale ? I feel that I have wronged 

Nature's most gracious soul ! 
She spreads her glories o'er the earth, 
And all her children, from their birth, 

Are joint heirs of the whole 1 



f 



283 

Yea, long as Nature's humblest child 
Hath kept her temple undefiled 

By sinful sacrifice ; 
Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, 
He is a monarch, and his throne 

Is built amid the skies ! 



THE SKY-LARK— Fo^^. 

Bird of the wilderness, 

Blithesome and cumberless, 
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea 1 

Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling place — 
O to abide in the desert with thee ! 

Wild is thy lay, and loud, 

Far in the downy cloud, 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 

Where, on the dewy wing, 

Where art thou journeying ! 
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen, 

O'er moor and mountain green, 
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 

Over the cloudlet dim, 

Over the rainbow's rim. 
Musical cherub, soar, singing away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes. 

Low in the heather blooms 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 

Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling place, — 
O, to abide in the desert with thee I 



284 



TO DAFFODILS.— ffcmc/c. Born in 1591. 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 
You waste away so soon ; 
As yet the early-rising sun 
Has not attain'd his noon : 
Slay, stay, 

Until the hast'ning day 
Has run 

But to the even-song ; 
And, having pray'd together, we 

Will go with you along ! 

We have short time to stay, as you ; 

We have as short a spring. 

As quick a growth to meet decay, 

As you, or any thing : 
We die, 

As your hours do ; and dry 
Away 
Like to the summer's rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning dew, 

Ne'er to be found again. 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

Translated from the German of Salis, by Longfellow. 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 

Thither, O thither, 

Into the Silent Land ? 



285 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 

Of .beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and 

band ! 
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, 
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 
Into the Silent Land 1 

Oh Land ! Oh Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

Into the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 



THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.— T. Moore. 

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 
Oh! the last ray of feeling and life must depart, 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene, 
Her purest of chrystal, and brightest of green ; 
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or rill ; 
Oh, no ! it was something more exquisite still. 

'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were near, 
Who made each dear scene of enchantment more dear. 
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, 
When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 



286 

Sweet vale of Ovoca ! how calm could I rest, 

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. 

Where the storms which we feel in this cold world 

should cease, 
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. 



THE HERMIT.— BeaHie. 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove. 
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill. 
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ; 
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar. 
While his harp rung symphonious, a Hermit began ; 
No more with himself, or with nature at war. 
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 

" Ah why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, 

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 

For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral. 

But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, 

Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to mourn ; 

O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away, 

Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 

" Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, 
The moon half extinguished her crescent displays : 
But lately I marked, when majestic on high 
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
Roll on thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 
The path that conducts thee to splendor again : 
But man's faded glory what change shall renew! 
Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vain I 



287 

"'Tis night and the landscape is lovely no more ; 
I mourn, but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, 
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. 
Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn : 
Kind Nature the embryo-blossom will save. 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! 
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave !" 

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, 

That leads, to bewilder ; and dazzles, to blind ; 

My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to 

shade ; 
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
" O pity, great Father of light ! (then I cried) 
Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee : 
Lo ! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; 
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free." 

And darkness and doubt are now flying away ; 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn ; 

So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn : 

See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, 

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 

Oh the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blend- 

And Beauty Immortal awakes from the tomb. 



288 



ODE.--Conins. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
By all their country's wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck the hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod. 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By Fairy hands their knell is rung. 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair. 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 



I 



TO OUR ELDEST HEIR.— Mrs. Hairy Coleridge. 

Deem not that our eldest heir 
Wins too much of love and care ; 
What a parent's heart can spare, 

Who can measure truly ? 
Early crops were never found 
To exhaust that fertile ground. 
Still with riches 'tvvill abound, 

Ever springing newly. 

See in yonder plot of flowers 
How the tallest lily towers, 
Catching beams and kindly showers 

Which the heavens are sheddinsfr 



289 

While the younger plants below, 
Less of sun and breezes know, 
Till beyond the shade they grow, 

High and richly spreading. 

She that latest leaves the nest. 
Little fledgeling much carest. 
Is not therefore loved the best, 

Though the most protected ; 
Nor the gadding daring child, 
Oft reproved for antics wild, 
Of our tenderness beguiled. 

Or in thought neglected. 

'Gainst the islet's rocky shore. 
Waves are beating evermore, 
Yet with blooms it's scattered o'er. 

Decked in softest lustre : 
Nature favors it no less 
Than the guarded, still recess, 
Where the birds for shelter press, 

And the harebells cluster. 



THE HUSBANDMAN. — Sterling. 

Earth, of man the bounteous mother, 
Feeds him still with corn and wine ; 
He who best would aid a brother. 
Shares with him these gifts divine. 

Many a power within her bosom 
Noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; 
Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom, 
Golden ear and clustered wreath. 
25 



290 

These to swell with strength and beauty, 
Is the royal task of man ; 
Man's a king, his throne is Duty, 
Since his work on earth began. 

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage. 
These, like man, are fruits of earth ; 
Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage. 
All from dust receive their birth. 

Barn and mill, and wine-vat's treasures. 
Earthly goods for earthly lives, 
These are Nature's ancient pleasures, 
These her child from her derives. 

What the dream, but vain rebelling, 
If from earth we sought to flee? 
'Tis our stored and ample dwelling, 
'Tis from it the skies we see. 

Wind and frost, and hour and season. 
Land and water, sun and shade, — 
Work with these, as bids thy reason. 
For they work thy toil to aid. 

Sow thy seed and reap in gladness ! 
Man himself is all a seed ; 
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness, 
Slow the plant to ripeness lead. 



291 



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE— H. K. White. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 

Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 

Was nursed in whirling storms 
And cradled in the winds. 

Thee, when young spring first questioned winter's 

sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
Thee on this bank he threw. 
To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 

Unnoticed, and alone. 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 

Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 
Of life, she rears her head 
Obscure and unobserved ; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows. 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 



292 



O THOU WHO DRY'ST.— r. Moore. 

O thou who dry'st the mourners tear ! 

How dark this world would be, 
If when deceived and wounded here, 

We could not fly to Thee. 

The friends, who in our sunshine live, 
When winter comes, are flown ; 

And he, who has but tears to give, 
Must weep those tears alone. 

But thou wilt heal that broken heart. 
Which, like the plants that throw 

Their fragrance from the wounded part. 
Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 

And e'en the hope, that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, 

Is dimmed and vanquished too ! 

Oh ! who could bear life's stormy doom. 

Did not Thy wing of love 
Come brightly wafting through the gloom 

Our peace-branch from above ? 

Then sorrow, touched by thee, grows bright 

With more than rapture's ray ; 
As darkness shows us worlds of light 

We never saw by day ! 



293 



HELL VELLYN.— Sir W. Scott. 

In 1805 a young gentleman, who was fond of wandering amidst 
the romantic scenery of the " Lake District," in the counties of 
Westmoreland and Cumberland in England, lostliis way on the Hell- 
vellyn mountains, and perished there. Three months afterwards 
bis remains were found, guarded by a faithful terrier dog, the sole 
companion of his rambles. 

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, 
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty 
and wide ; 
All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, 

And starting around me the echoes replied. 
On the right, Striden-edge' round the Red-tarn was 

bending, 
And Catchedicami its left verge was defending, 
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, 
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer 
had died. 

Dark green was the spot, mid the brown mountain 
heather, 

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, 
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, 

Till the mountain- winds wasted the tenantless clay. 
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended. 
For faithful in death, his mute favorite attended. 
The much-loved remains of her master defended, 

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. 

^ Hills in the Lake District. 

25* 



294 

How long didst thou think;,that his silence was slum- 
ber ? 
When the wind waved his garment how oft didst 
thou start ? 
How many long days and long weeks didst thou num- 
ber, 
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 
And oh ! was it meet, that — no requiem read o'er him, 
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. 
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him — 
Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart ? 

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, 
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; 

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded. 
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : 

Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are 
gleaming. 

In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming, 

Far a-down the long aisle sacred music is streaming. 
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature. 

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb ; 
When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in 
stature, 
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam: 
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, 
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying. 
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying. 
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam. 



m 



295 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.— Longfellow. 

There is a reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

" Shall I have nouglit that is fair ?" saith he ; 

" Have nought but the bearded grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 

I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

" My Lord has need of these flowrets gay," 

The reaper said, and smiled ; 
" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where he was once a child. 

*' They all shall bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care. 
And saints, upon their garments white. 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 

The flowers she most did love ; 
She knew she should find them all again 

In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath. 

The reaper came that day ; 
'Twas an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 



296 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.— Mrs. Cockhurn. 

I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling, 
I've felt all its favors, and found its decay ; 

Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, 
But soon it is fled — it is fled far away. 

I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost 

With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay ; 

Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air per- 
fuming ; 
But now they are withered, and a' wede away. 

I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, 
And loud tempest storming before the mid-day ; — 

I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the 
sunny beams. 
Grow 'drumly and dark, as he rolled on his way. 

O fickle Fortune ! why this cruel sporting ? 

O why thus perplex us poor sons of a day ? 
No more your smiles can cheer me, no more your frowns 

can fear me. 
Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede away. 



I 



THE TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE. 

R. M. Miines. 

The marriage blessing on their brows, 
Across the channel seas 
And lands of gay Garonne, they reach 
The pleasant Pyrenees ; 

1 Discolored. 



297 

He into boyhood born again, 
A child of joy and life ; 
And she a happy English girl, 
A^ happier English wife. 

They loiter not where Argeles, 

The chestnut-crested plain, 

Unfolds its robe of green and gold 

In pasture, grape, and grain ; 

But on and up, where nature's heart 

Beats strong amid the hills, 

They pause — contented with the wealth 

That either bosom fills. 

There is a lake, a small round lake, 
High on the mountain's breast ; 
The child of rains and melted snows, 
The torrent's summer rest. 
A mirror, where the veteran rocks 
May glass their peaks and scars ; 
A nether sky where breezes break 
The sunlight into stars. 

Oh gaily shone that little lake, 

And nature, sternly fair, 

Put on a sparkling countenance 

To greet that merry pair ; 

How light from stone to stone they leapt! 

How trippingly they ran ! 

To scale the rock and gain the marge, 

Was all a moment's span ! 

** See, dearest, this primeval boat, 
So quaint and rough, — I deem 
Just such an one did Charon ply 
Across the Stygian stream ; 



298 

Step in — I will your Charon be, 
And you a spirit bold ; 
I was a famous rower once — 
In college days of old. 

" The clumsy oar 1 the laggard boat ! 

How slow we move along ! 

The work is harder than I thought, 

A song, my love, a song !" 

Then standing up, she carolled out 

So blithe and sweet a strain, 

That the long-silent cliffs were glad 

To peal it back again. 

He, tranced in joy, the oar laid down, 

And rose in careless pride, 

And swayed, in cadence to the song, 

The boat from side to side : 

Then, clasping hand in loving hand, 

They danced a childish round. 

And felt as safe in that mid-lake 

As on the firmest ground. 

One poise too much ! he headlong fell — 

She, stretching out to save 

A feeble arm, was borne a-down 

Within that glittering grave : 

One moment, and the gush went forth 

Of music-mingled laughter; 

The struggling splash and deathly shriek 

Were there the instant after. 

Her weaker head above the flood, 
That quick engulfed the strong, 
Like sotne enchanted water flower, 
Waved pitifully long : 



1 



299 

Long seemed the low and lonely wail 
Athwart the tide to fade ; 
Alas I that there were some to hear, 
J^ut never one to save. 

Yet not alas ! if heaven revered 

The freshly spoken vow, 

And willed that what was then made one 

Should not be sundered now ; 

If she was spared, by that sharp stroke, 

Love's most unnatural doom, 

The future lorn and unconsoled, 

The unavoided tomb ! 

But weep, ye very rocks, for those. 
Who, on their native shore, 
Await the letters of dear news, 
That shall arrive no more ! 
One letter from a stranger hand, — 
Few words are all the need ; — 
And then the funeral of the heart, 
The course of useless speed ! 

The presence of the cold dead wood, 

The single mark and sign 

Of all so loved and beautiful, — 

The handiwork divine ! 

The weary search for his fine form 

That in the depth would linger, 

And late success — Oh ! leave the ring 

Upon that faithful finger. 

And if in life there lie the seed 
Of real enduring being ; 
If love and truth be not decreed 
To perish unforeseeing : 



300 

This youth the seal of death has stamped, 
Now time can wither never, 
This hope, that sorrow might have damped, 
Is flowering fresh forever. 



AUTUMN MUSINGS.— Burns. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear. 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown ; 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues. 

How long I have lived — but how much lived in 

vain, 
How little of life's scanty span may remain ; 
What aspects old time in his progress has worn, 
"What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gained ; 
And downward, how weakened, how darkened, 

how pained ; 
Life is not worth having with all it can give ; 
For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



301 



TIME.— Sir W. Scott. 



Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, 
Thou aged carle so stern and gray 1 

Dost thou its former pride recall, 
Or ponder how it passed away 1 

" Know'st thou not me ?" the deep voice cried, 
" So long enjoyed, so oft misused — 

Alternate, in thy fickle pride, 

Desired, neglected, and accused ? 

" Before my breath, like smoking flax, 

Man and his marvels pass away ; 
And changing empires wane and wax, — 

Are founded, flourish, and decay. 

" Redeem mine hours — the space is brief — 
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver j 

And measureless thy joy and grief. 

When Time and thou shalt part forever !" 



TO BLOSSOMS.— Hcrrick. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past. 

But you may stay yet here awhile 
To blush and gently smile 
Then go at last. 



302 

What, were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 

And so to bid good night? 
'Twas pity nature brought ye forth 

Merely to show your worth. 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave : 

And after they have shown their pride^ 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 




REMEMBRANCE— Southey. 

Man hath a weary pilgrimage 
As through the world he wends, 
On every stage from youth to age. 

Still discontent attends ; 
With heaviness he casts his eye 

Upon the road before. 
And still remembers with a sigh 

The days that are no more. 

To school the little exile goes. 

Torn from his mother's arn>s, — 
What then shall soothe his earliest woes, 

When novelty hath lost its charms ? 

Condemned to suffer through the day 

Restraints which no rewards repay, 

And cares where love has no concern ; 
Hope lengthens as she counts the hours 

Before his wished return. 



303 

From hard control and tyrant rules, 
The unfeeling discipline of schools, 
In thought he loves to roam, 
And tears will struggle in his eye 
While he remembers with a sigh 
The comforts of his home. 

Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life 

Torment the restless mind ; 
Where shall the tired and harassed heart 

Its consolation find ? 

Then is not Youth, as fancy tells, 

Life's summer prime of joy ? 
Ah no ! for hopes too long delayed, 

And feelings blasted or betrayed, 
The fabled bliss destroy ; 
And Youth remembers with a sigh. 
The careless days of Infancy. 

Maturer Manhood now arrives, 
And other thoughts come on. 
But with the baseless hopes of Youth 
Its generous warmth is gone ; 
Cold calculating cares succeed, 
The timid thought, the wary deed. 

The dull realities of truth ; 
Back on the past he turns his eye ; 
Remembering with an envious sigh 

The happy dreams of Youth. 

So reaches he the latter stage 
Of this our mortal pilgrimage. 
With feeble step and slow ; 
New ills that latter stage await. 
And old experience learns too late 
That all is vanity below. 



304 

Life's vain delusions are gone by, 

Its idle hopes are o'er, 
Yet age remembers with a sigh 

The days that are no more. 



SENSIBILITY.— Burns. 

Sensibility, how charming, 
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell : 
But distress, with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well. 

Fairest flower ! behold the lily 
Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest. 
Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure. 
Finer feelings can bestow; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



305 



SONG OF THE STARS TO THE EARTH. 

' From the German of Stolbkrg. 

Sweet be thy slumbers, sister dear, 

Upon thy odor-scented bed ; 
Repose in peace until thou hear 

The voice of morning widely spread. 

Then mayest thou wake all fresh and gay, 
Adorned with tints of rosy light; 

And, 'mid the rest, may no rude sway 
Of sudden storms thy beauty blight. 

May no wild winds with furious wing 
To rend thy lovely locks conspire ; 

Nor high the waves of ocean fling. 
With discord hoarse, to glut their ire, 

And drown the gentle soothing sound 
That rises from the heaving main ; 

And may no thunders burst around. 
From Etna's womb, to blast the plain. 

And may the winged lightnings sleep 
Upon the high Alps' darksome breast, 

While now through air reigns silence deep, 
O sister dear, to aid thy rest. 

No clouds now intervene to hide 
From us thy beauty, planet fair, 

No vapors dim are seen to glide 
Athwart the tranquil void of air. 
26* 



306 

Now do the mild moon's lovely beams 
Upon thine orb delight to play : 

And swift shall fly the hours, till gleams 
Of new-born light restore the day. 

O may thy children all partake 
The slumbers of this silent hour ! 

While those who may their couch forsake, 
Tossed by relentless sorrow's power 

The moon shall soothe, — her mild regard 
Hath often solaced the distressed ; 

For when the storm of grief blows hard, 
Her gentle influence calms the breast. 

Those now who sail the faithless sea, 
In silver leading strings we'll guide 

Through the dark night, from danger free 
Of rapid whirlpool's giddy tide — 

Nor quicksands, shoal, nor hidden rock 
Shall wound the swiftly gliding keel ; 

While we keep watch, no sudden shock 
From wind or wave the bark shall feel. 

Then sweetly slumber, sister dear, 

Upon thy odor-scented bed 
Calm be thy sleep, till thou shall hear 

The voice of morning widely spread. 



307 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE.— Wastell ; 
Born about 1565. 

Like as the damask rose you see, 
Or like the blossom on the tree, 
Or like the dainty flower of May, 
Or like the morning to the day. 
Or like the sun, or like the shade, 
Or like the gourd which Jonah had, 
E'en such is man ; — whose thread is spun, 
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. 
Withers the rose, the blossom blasts. 
The flower fades, the morning hastes. 
The sun doth set, the shadow flies. 
The gourd consumes, — and man he dies ! 

Like to the grass that 's newly sprung. 

Or like a tale that's new begun, 

Or like the bird that's here to-day. 

Or like the pearled dew of May, 

Or like an hour, or like a span. 

Or like the singing of a swan. 

E'en such is man ; — who lives by breath, 

Is here, now there, in life and death. 

The grass decays, the tale is ended, 

The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, 

The hour is short, the span not long. 

The swan's near death, — man's life is done ! 

Like to the bubble in the brook, 
Or in a glass much like a look, 
Or like the shuttle in the hand. 
Or like the writing in the sand. 
Or like a thought ; or like a dream, 



308 

Or like the gliding of the stream, 
E'en such is man ; — who lives by breath, 
Is here, now there, in life and death. 
The bubble's burst, tlie look 's forgot, 
The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot, 
The thought is past, the dream is gone, 
The water glides, — man's life is done ! 



hOYE.—MUnes. 

There are gold bright suns in worlds above, 
And blazing gems in worlds below. 
Our world has Love and only Love, 
For living warmth, and jewel glow j 
God's Love is sunlight to the good, 
And Woman's pure as diamond sheen, 
And Friendship's mystic brotherhood 
In twilight beauty lies between. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.— Lono/eZ^oio. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory, that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 

Around a far uplifted cone, 



309 

In the warm blush of evening shone ; 

An image of the silver lakes, 

By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays. 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the vvarrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress. 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 



310 

And heavy and impatient tread, 
He came ; and ofl tiiat eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart! One piercing neigh 
Arose, — and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



HEAVEN.— Fjom FesUis. 

Is Heaven a place where pearly streams 

Glide over silver sand ? 
Like childhood's rosy dazzling dreams 

Of some far fairy land 1 

Is Heaven a clime where diamond dews 

Glitter on fadeless flowers ? 
And mirth and music ring aloud 

From amaranthine bowers 1 

Ah no ; not such, not such is Heaven ! 

Surpassing far all these ; 
Such cannot be the guerdon given, 

Man's wearied soul to please. 

For saints and sinners here below, 
Such vain to be have proved ; 

And the pure spirit will despise 
Whate'er the sense has loved. 



311 

There shall we dwell with Sire and Son, 

And with the Mother-maid, 
And with the Holy Spirit, one ; 

In glory like arrayed : 

And not to one created thing 
Shall one embrace be given ; 

But all our joy shall be in God, 
For only God is Heaven. 



ARNOLD WINKELRIED.— Jl/on^o-ower?^. 

" Make way for liberty !" he cried ; 
Make way for liberty, and died 1 

It must not be : this day, this hour, 
Annihilates th' oppressor's power 1 
All Switzerland is in the field, 
She will not fly, she cannot yield — 
She must not fall ; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 
Few were the numbers she could boast ; 
But every freeman was a host. 
And felt as though himself were he, 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 
It did depend on one indeed ; 
Behold him — Arnold Winkelried I 
There sounds not to the trump of fame 
The echo of a nobler name. 
Unmarked he stood amid the throng, 
In rumination deep and long, 
Till you might see, with sudden grace, 
The very thought come o'er his face ; 



312 

And, by the motion of his form, 

Anticipate the rising storm ; 

And, by the uplifting of his brow, 

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 

But 'twas no sooner thought than done ! 
The field was in a moment won : — 
" Make way for liberty !" he cried, 
Then ran, with arms extended wide, 
As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 
Ten spears he swept within his grasp : 
" Make way for liberty !" he cried, 
Their keen points met from side to side ; 
He bowed amongs't them like a tree, 
And thus made way for liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly ; 
" Make way for liberty !" they cry. 
And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart ; 
While instantaneous as his fall, 
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all : 
An earthquake could not overthrow 
A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free ; 
Thus death made way for liberty ! 



A CHARADE — By Praed. 

He talked of daggers and of darts, 

Of passions and of pains. 

Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts, 

Of constancy and chains; 

He said though love was kin to grief. 

He was not born to grieve ; 



313 

He said though matiy rued belief, 

She safely might believe. 

And still the lady shook her head, 

And swore by yea and nay, 

My whole was all that he had said, 

And all that he could say. 

He said my First, — whose silent car 
Was slowly wandering by, 
Veiled in a vapor faint and far 
Through the un fathomed sky, — 
Was like the smile whose rosy light 
Across her young lips passed : 
But Oh ! it was not half as bright, 
Nor faded half as fast ! 
But still the lady shook her head, 
And swore by yea and nay. 
My whole was all that he had said, 
And all that he could say. 

And then he set a cypress wreath 

Upon his raven hair. 

And drew his rapier from its sheath — 

Which made the lady stare ; 

And said his life-blood's purple flow 

My second then should dim, 

If she he loved and worshipped so. 

Would only weep for him. 

But still the lady shook her head, 

And swore by yea and nay, 

My whole was all that he had said, 

And all that he could say. 

Answer. — Moonshine. 
27 



314 



ON MYSELF.— Coiclerj. 

This only grant me, that my means may lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honor I would have, 
Not from great deeds, but good alone ; 
Th' unknown are better than ill known ; 

Rumor can ope the grave. 
Acquaintance I would have, but when't depends 
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. 

Books should, not business, entertain the light, 
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. 

My house a cottage more 
Than palace ;. and should fitting be 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 
With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures 

yield, 
Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life's fading space; 
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. 

And in this true delight, 
These unbought sports, this happy state, 
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ; 

But boldly say each night, 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display, 
Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to-day. 



315 



THE GRASSnOFPER.— Tennyson. 

Voice of the summer wind, 
Joy of the summer plain, 
Life of the summer hours, 
Carol clearly, bound along. 
No Tithon^ thou, as poets feign, 
(Shame fall 'em they are deaf and blind,) 
But an insect lithe and strong, 
Bowing the seeded summer flowers. 
Prove their falsehood and thy quarrel, 
Vaulting on thy airy feet, 
Clap thy shielded sides and carol, 
Carol clearly, chirrup sweet. ^ 

Thou art a mailed warrior in youth and strength 
complete. 

Armed cap-a-pie 

Full fair to see ; 

Unknowing fear, 

Undreading loss. 

A gallant cavalier, 

" Sans peur et sans reproche,"^ 

In sunlight and in shadow, 

The Bayard of the meadow. 



1 Among the many beautiful fables of the ancient Greeks, was this 
one. The beauty o! 'J'iilioiius, son of a king of Troy, gained for him 
the affection ofone of the goddesses. He begged her, as a favor, to 
make hini immortal, and his request was granted. But as he had 
forgotten to ask to retain the vigor and beauty of youth, he soon be- 
came infirm and decrepid ; and as life became insupportable to him, 
he begged tlie go<l(iess to remove him from tlie world. As lie could 
not die, she changed him into a grasshopper. 

2 Without fear and iciUiout reproach, an epithet applied to Bayard, a 
French knight, distinguished fur his courage and his integrity. He 
died in 1524. 



316 

I would dwell with thee, , 

Merry grasshopper, 
Thou art so glad and free, 

And as light as air ; 
Thou hast no sorrow or tears, 
Thou hast no cornpt of years, 
No withered immortality, 
But a short youth, sunny and free. 
Carol clearly, bound along. 

Soon thy joy is over. — 
A summer of loud song, 

And slumbers in the clover. 
What has thou to do with evil 
In thine hour of love and revel, 

In thy heat of summer pride 

Pushing the thick roots aside 

Of the singing flowered grasses. 

That brush thee with their silken tresses? 
What hast thou to do with evil, 
Shooting, singing, ever springing 

In and out the emerald glooms ; 
Ever leaping, ever singing. 

Lighting on the golden blooms ? 



A GRECIAN ANECDOTE Milnes. 

How Sparta thirsted after orient gold. 

And bartered faith for wealth she dared not use, 

Is as severe a tale as e'er was told 

The pride of man to conquer and confuse. 

Therefore forget not what that nature was, 
That once availed the base desire to foil, 
When sought the Ionian Aristagoras 
To mingle Sparta in his distant broil. 



317 

How thick the perils of that far emprize, 

How dim the vista cunningly displayed, 

The king discerned with clear and practised eyes, 

And bade the stranger court Athenian aid. 

To people as to prince, appeal was vain, — 

Vain the dark menace — vain the shadowy gibe, — 

But the wise envoy would not bend again 

His homevvard steps, till fail'd the wonted bribe. 

A suppliant at the regal hearth he stood, 
Nor ever thought that proffer to withhold 
Because about them, in her careless mood, 
Play'd the king's child, — a girl, some nine years 
old. 

Ten — twenty — forty talents rose the bait ; — 
Strange feeling glistened in those infant eyes, 
That gazed attentive on the grave debate 
And seemed to search its meaning in surprise. 

Yet fifty now had well-secured the prey. 
Had not a little hand tight clasped his arm, 
And a quick spirit uttered, " Come away, 
Father, — that man is there to do you harm." 

Not unaccepted such pure omen came ; 
That gentle voice the present God revealed, — 
And back the Ionian chief returned in shame, 
Checked by the virtue of that simple shield. 

27* 



318 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.— Bryant. 

The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the 

year, 
Of wailing winda, and naked woods, and meadows 

brown and sear. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves 

lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's 

tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs 

the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the 

gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- 
hood ? 

Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of 
flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good 
of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold No- 
vember rain 

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones 
again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago. 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- 
mer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 
wood, 



319 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn- 
beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls 
,the plague on men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from up- 
land, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such 
days will come. 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter 
home ; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all 
the trees are still. 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra- 
grance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream 
no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 

died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my 

side : 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest 

cast the leaf. 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 

brief: 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend 

of ours. 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 

flowers. 



320 



THE SONG OF THE BRAVE MAN. 

The brave man's song resounds on high, 
Like echoing bell or organ tone ! 
Whoe'er can boast of bravery, 
Not gold rewards but song alone. 
Thank God that I can sing and raise 
My voice to sing the brave man's praise. 

The thaw-wind came from southern sea, 

And damp o'er Italy it passed : 

As from the wolf the cattle flee, 

So fled the clouds before the blast. 

It scoured o'er fields, it burst through woods, 

And freed from ice the lakes and floods. 

On lofty mountains melts the snow, — 

A thousand cataracts resound; 

An ocean whelms the vallies low, 

The land stream leaps o'er wall and mound ; 

High roll the waves on every side, 

Unwieldy ice-rocks choke the tide. 

On pillars and on arches, made 
Of freestone, rising from the flood 
A goodly bridge across was laid, 
And mid-way a small dwelling stood : 
Here lived a toll-man, child, and wife, — 
Oh toll-man, toll-man, fly for life ! 

The waters roared : not far aloof 
The angry tempest fiercely howled ; 
The toll-man sprang upon his roof, 
And gazed upon it as it scowled. 
Merciless Heaven ! — wind and wave — 
We all are lost, for who can save ! 



321 

The ice-rocks tumbled, crash on crash, 
From either shore, — both here and there ; 
From either shore the waters dash, 
And down botii rock and pillar tear. 
The trembling toll-man, wife, and child 
Shrieked louder than the tempest wild. 

The ice-rocks trembled, fall on fall, 
Both here and there along the shore : — 
They burst the bridge's shattered wall, 
Pillar by pillar down they bore. 
The ruin onward made its way, — 
Have mercy Heaven on us this day ! 

Aloft, upon the further brink, 

A crowd stands gazing, great and small : 

They scream and wring their hands, but shrink 

From the deliverance, one and all ; 

The trembling toll-man, cliild, and wife 

Through wind and tempest shrieked for life. 

When soundest thou the brave man's fame, 
Like echoing bell or organ-tone — 
My noble song, Oh give his name, 
And let it stand aloft, alone I 
Destruction is within a span : — 
Come to the rescue, thou brave man ! 

A count of noble blood and worth, 
Now gallops up on courser bold, 
What wi his hand is proffered forth ? 
It is a purse brim-full of gold. 
Two hundred pieces are his prize, 
Who to the rescue instant flies. 

Who is the man will strive to save 1 
Is it the count 1 — My song say on. 
By highest heaven the count is brave, 



322 

But still I know a braver one. 

Come forth, brave man, come forth with speed ; 

Ruin approaches — great their need. 

Higher and higher swelled the flood, 
Louder and louder roared the wind, 
Colder and colder chilled the blood — 
Oh ! where shall they preserver find ! 
Pillar on pillar, arch and wall, 
One after other crash and fall. 

Halloo ! halloo ! Oh who will dare ? 
The count the noble prize uprears; — 
They hear, they tremble, and they stare, 
But out of thousands none appears : 
In vain the toll-man, child, and wife 
Mid wind and waters shrieked for life. 

Behold a lowly peasant there, 

With walking stafl", starts forward now : — 

His clothing is but coarse and bare, 

But high and noble is his brow, — 

He heard the count the boon proclaim, 

And saw how near destruction came. 

And boldly, in God's name, he leapt 

Into the nearest fishing-bark. 

And with good speed his way he kept 

Through whirlpool, storm, and billow dark. 

But ah ! the boat is far too small 

At once to bear and save them all. 

But thrice he urged his little bark 
Through whirlpools, rocks, and torrent's fall, 
And thrice with manly sinews stark, 
Rowed happily to save them all. — 
And scarcely were they safe and well, 
When the last tottering ruin fell. 



323 

Who is the brave man ? Who is he ? 
Say on my song ; his name unfold. 
And did he risk his life to be 
The master of that glittering gold ? 
Had the proud count ne'er promised boon, 
Would he have risked his life as soon ? 

" Here," cried the count, " stout-hearted friend, 
Receive the prize : 'tis thine, 'tis thine !" 
'Twas nobly done, — but hear the end. 
The count a lofty soul might bear. 
But higher, heavenlier, beat the heart 
Of the brave man who stood apart. 

" My life for wealth shall ne'er be sold, 
Though poor I am, contented still ; 
But to the toll-man give your gold : 
His all is lost ; his lot is ill." 
Thus spoke he in firm heart-felt tone, 
Then turned his back and he was gone. 



THE CORAL GROVE —Pcrcival. 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 

Where the purple mullet and gold fish rove ; 

Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, 

That never are wet with falling dew. 

But in bright and changeful beauty shine, 

Far down in the green and glassy brine. 

The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift. 

And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow; 

From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; 

The water is calm and still below, 



324 

For the winds and the waves are absent there, 

And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 

In the motionless fields of upper air : 

There with its waving blade of green, 

The sea flag streams through the silent water, 

And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 

To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter : 

There with a light and easy motion 

The fan coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ; 

And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 

Are bending like corn on the upland lea ; 

And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 

Is sporting amid those bovvers of stone. 

And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms 

Has made the top of the waves his own : 

And when the sliij) from his fury flies. 

When the myriad voices of ocean roar, 

When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies. 

And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore ; 

Then, far below, in the peaceful sea. 

The purple mullet and gold fish rove. 

Where the waters murmur tranquilly 

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 



A HAPPY LIFE— 5V7- Henry Wolton. 

How happy is he born and tanglit, 
That serveth not another's will ; 
Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill : 

Whose passions not his masters are ; 
Whose soul is still prepared for death. 
Untied unto the world by care 
Of public fame, or private breath : 



325 

Who envies none, that chance doth raise, 
Nor vice : hath ever understood 
How deepest wounds are given by praise, 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good. 

Who hath his life from rumors freed ; 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great. 

Who God doth late and early pray, 
More of liis grace than gifts to lend ; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend. 

This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall : 
Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 



VIRTUE.— OZ(i English Poetry. 

The sturdy rock, for all his strength, 
By raging seas is rent in twain ; 

The marble stone is pierced at length 
With little drops of drizzling rain : 

The ox doth yield unto the yoke ; 

The steel obeyeth the hammer stroke. 

Yea, man himself, unto whose will 
All things are bounden to obey, 
For all his wit, and worthy skill, 

'28 



326 

Doth fade at length, and fall away. 
There is no thing but time doth waste ; 
The heavens, the earth, consume at last. 

But Virtue sits, triumphing still, 
Upon the throne of glorious Fame; 
Though spiteful Death man's body kill, 

Yet hurts he not his virtuous name. 
By life or death, whatso betides. 
The state of Virtue never slides. 



KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM.— Coiopcr. 

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, 
Have oft times no connexion. Knowledge dwells 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
Wisdom, in minds attentive to their ovvn. 
Knowledge, — a rude, unprofitable mass. 
The mere materials with which wisdom builds, — 
Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, 
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich ! 
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much. 
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 



GOOD TEMFER.— More. 

Since trifles make the sum of human things, 
And half our misery from our foibles springs; 
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease. 
And though but few can serve, yet all may please ; 
O let the ungentle spirit learn from hence, 
A small unkindness is a great offence ! 



327 



CONSTANCY — George Herbert. 

Who is the honest man ? 
He that doth slill and strongly good pursue, 
To God, his neighbor, and himself, most true ; 

Whom neitlier force nor frowning can 
Unpin, or wrench from giving all their due. 

Whose honesty is not 
So loose or easy, that a ruffling wind 
Can blow away, or glittering look it blind ; 

Who rides his sure and even trot, 
While the world now rides by, now lags behind. 

Who, when great trials come, 
Nor seeks, nor shuns them ; but doth calmly stay 
Till he the thing and the example weigh ; 

All being brought into a sum, 
What place or person calls for, he doth pay. 

Whom none can work or woo 
To use in any thing a trick or sleight ; 
Far above all things he abhors deceit ; 

PI is words, and works, and fashion too, 
All of a piece, and all are clear and straight. 



Who never melts or thaws 
At close temptations ! when the day is done 
His goodness sets not ; but in dark can run : 

The sun to others writeth laws 
And is their virtue ; virtue is his sun. 



328 

Who, when he is to treat 
With sick folUs, women, those whom passions sway, 
Allows for that, and keeps his constant way : 

Whom otliers' faults do not defeat ; 
But though men fail him, yet his part doth play. 

Whom nothing can procure, 
When the wide world runs bias, from his will 
To writhe iiis limbs, and share, not mend, the ill. 

This is the marksman safe and sure, 
Who still is right, and prays to be so still. 



TIMES GO BY TVRNS. —SoutJncell, born in 1560. 

The lopped tree in time may grow again, 
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; 
The sorriest wight may find release of pain ; 
The driest soil suck up some moistening shower : 
'J'imes go by turns, and chances change by course, 
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 

The sea of Fortune dotli not ever flow ; 
She draws her favors to the lowest ebb ; 
Her tides have equal times to come and go ; 
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web : 
No joy so great but runneth to an end. 
No hap so hard but may in fine amend. 

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring ; 
Not endless night, nor yet eternal day : 
The saddest birds a season find to sing : 
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay ; 
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, 
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 



329 

A chance may win that by mischance was lost ; 
That net that holds no great, takes little fish ; 
In some things all, in all things none are crossed; 
Few all they need, but none have all they wish. 
Unmingled joys here to no man befall ; 
Who least, have some; who most, have never all. 



TO SORROW.— Mllnes. 

Sister Sorrow ! sit beside me, 
Or, if I must wander, guide me ; 
Let me take thy hand in mine, 
Cold alike are mine and thine. 

Think not sorrow, that I hate thee— 
Think not I am frightened at thee— 
Thou art come for some good end, 
I will treat thee as a friend. 

I will say that thou art bound 
My unshielded soul to wound 
By some force without thy will, 
And art tender-minded still. 

I will say thou givest scope 
To the breath and life of hope ; 
That thy gentle tears have weight 
Hardest hearts to penetrate : 

That thy shadow brings together 
Friends long lost in sunny weather; 
With an hundred offices 
Beautiful and blest as these. 

28* 



330 

Softly takest thou the crown 
From my haughty temples down ; 
Place it on thine own pale brow, 
Pleasure wears one, — why not Thou ? 

Let the blossoms glitter there 
On thy long unbanded hair, 
And when I have borne my pain, 
Thou wilt give them me again. 

If Thou goest, sister Sorrow ! 
I shall look for Thee to-morrow, — 
I shall often see Thee drest 
As a masquerading guest : 

And, howe'er Thou hids't the name, 
I shall know Thee still the same. 
As Thou sit'st beside me now, 
With my garland on Thy brow. 



HUMILIBUS DAT GRATIAM.— PcacAam, about 1600. 

The mountains huge, that seem to check the sky, 
And all the world with greatness over-peer, 

With heath or moss for most part barren lie ; 
When vallies low doth kindly Piiojbus cheer, 

And with his heat in hedge and grove begets 

The virgin primrose or sweet violets. 

So God oft-times denies unto the great 

The gifts of nature, or His heavenly grace, 

And those that high in honor's chair are set, 
Do feel their wants ; when men of meaner place, 

Although they lack the others' golden spring. 

Perhaps are blest above the richest king. 



331 



TO A DAUGHTER ON HER BIRTH- DAY— fij/row. 

Hail to this teeming stage of strife ! 
Hail lovely miniature of life ! 
Pilgrim of many cares untold ! 
Lamb of the world's extended fold ! 
Fountain of hopes, and doubt and fears! 
Sweet promise of ecstatic years ! 
How fainly would I bend the knee 
And turn idolater to thee ! 

'Tis nature's worship, felt, confest — 
Far as the life which warms the breast, 
The sturdy savage 'midst his clan, 
The rudest portraiture of man, 
In trackless woods and boundless plains 
Where everlasting wildness reigns, 
Owns the still throb — the secret start — 
The hidden impulse of the heart. 

Unconscious Babe ! though on that brow 
No half fledged misery nestles now — 
Scarce round those placid lips a smile 
Maternal fondness shall beguile, 
Ere the moist footsteps of a tear 
Shall plant their dewy traces there, 
And prematurely pave the way 
For sorrows of a riper day. 

Oh ! could a father's prayer repel 
The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell ! 
Or could a father hope to bear, 
A darling child's allotted care, 



332 

Then thou, my babe, should'st slumber still, 
Exempted from all human ill ; 
A parent's love thy peace should free, 
And ask its wounds again for thee. 

Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest — 
May joy still animate thy breast? 
Still 'midst thy least propitious days 
Shedding its rich inspiring rays! 
A father's heart shall daily bear 
Thy name upon its secret prayer ; 
And as he seeks his last repose, 
Thine image ease life's parting throes. 

Then hail, sweet miniature of life ! 
Hail to this teeming stage of strife ! 
Pilgrim of many cares untold ! 
Lamb of the world's extended fold 1 
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears, 
Sweet promise of ecstatic years ! 
How fainly would I bend the knee 
And turn idolater to thee ! 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND Milnes. 

I'm not where I was yesterday, 
Though my home be still the same, 
For I have lost the veriest friend 
Whom ever a friend could name ; 
I'm not what 1 was yesterday, 
Though change there be little to see, 
For a part of myself has lapsed away 
From Time to Eternity. 



333 

I have lost a thought, that many a year 

Was most familiar food 

To my inmost mind, by night or day, 

I;i merry or plaintive mood ; 

I have lost a hope, that many a year 

Looked far on a gleaming way, 

When the walls of life were closing round, 

And the sky was sombre gray. 

For long, too long, in distant climes 

My lot was cast, and then 

A frail and casual intercourse 

Was all I had with men ; 

But lonelily in distant climes 

I was well content to roam, 

And felt no void, for my heart was full 

Of the friend it had left at home. 

And now I was close to my native shores, 

And I felt him at my side, 

His spirit was in that homeward wind, 

His voice in that homeward tide ; 

For what were to me my native shores, 

But that they held the scene 

Where my youth's most genial flowers had blown, 

And affection's root had been ? 

I thought, how should I see him first. 
How should our hands first meet ; 
Within his room, — upon the stair, — 
At the Corner of the street ? 
I thought, where should I hear him first. 
How catch his greeting tone ? — 
And thus I went up to his door. 
And they told me he was gone ! 



334 

Oh ! what is Life but a sum of Love, 

And Death but to lose it all ? 

Weeds be for those that are left behind, 

And not for those that fall ! 

And now how mighty a sum of love 

Is lost forever for me. 

No I'm not what I was yesterday, 

Though change there be little to see. 



TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LABY.—MUon. 

Lady that in the prime of earliest youth 

Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the 

green, 
And with those few are eminently seen, 
That labor up the hill of heavenly truth. 

The better part with Mary and with Ruth 
Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween, 
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen. 
No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. 

Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends 

To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 
And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be 
sure 

Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful 
friends 
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, 
Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. 



335 



TWENTY-SECOND SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY — 

Keblc. 

"Lord, how often sliall my brother sin against me, and I forgive 
him V — Matthew xviii. 21. 

What liberty so glad and gay, 

As where the mountain boy, 
Reckless of regions far away, 

A prisoner lives in joy. 

The dreary sounds of crowded earth, 

The cries of camp or town, 
Never untuned his lonely mirth, 

Nor drew his visions down. 

The snow-clad peaks of rosy light 

That meet his morning view, 
The thwarting cliffs that bound his sight, 

They bound his fancy too. 

Two ways alone his roving eye 

For age may onward go. 
Or in the azure deep on high. 

Or darksome mere below. 

Oh blessed restraint ! more blessed range I 

Too soon the happy child 
His nook of homely thought will change 

For life's seducing wild : 

Too soon his altered day-dreams show 

This earth a boundless space. 
With sun-bright pleasures to and fro, 

Sporting in joyous race : 



336 

While of his narrowing heart each year, 

Heaven less and less will fill, 
Less keenly, through his grosser ear, 

The tones of mercy thrill. 

It must be so ; else wherefore falls 

The Saviour's voice unheard, 
While from His pardoning cross He calls, 

" O spare as I have spared." 

By our own niggard rule we try 
The hope to suppliants given ; 

We mete out love, as if our eye 
Saw to the end of Heaven. 

Yes, ransomed sinner ! would'st thou know 

How often to forgive, 
How dearly to embrace thy foe, 

Look where thou hop'st to live : 

When thou hast told those isles of light. 

And fancied all beyond, 
Whatever owns, in depth or height, 

Creation's wondrous bond ; 

Then in their solemn pageant learn 

Sweet mercy's praise to see ; 
Their Lord resigned them all, to earn 

The bliss of pardoning thee. 



337 



THE BEGGAR. — J. R. Lowell. 

A' beggar through the world am I, 
From place to place I wander by ; 
Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, 
For Christ's sweet sake and charity ! 

A little of thy steadfastness, 
Rounded with leafy gracefulness, 
Old oak, give me, — 

That the world's blasts may round me blow, 
And I yield gently to and fro. 
While my stout-hearted trunk below, 
And firm-set roots unmoved be. 

Some of thy stern, unyielding might. 
Enduring still through day and night 
Rude tempest-shock and withering blight, — 
Tliat I may keep at bay 
The changeful April sky of chance 
And the strong tide of circumstance, — 
Give me, old granite gray. 

Some of thy mournfulness serene, 
Some of thy never-dying green. 
Put in this scrip of mine, — 
That grief may fall like snow-flakes light, 
And deck me in a robe of white, 
Ready to be an angel bright, — 
O sweetly-mournful pine. 

A little of thy merriment. 
Of thy sparkling, light content, 
Give me, my cheerful brook, — 
That I may still be full of glee 
And gladsomeness, where'er I be. 
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me 
In some neglected nook. 
29 



338 

Ye have been very kind and good 
To me, since I've been in the wood ; 
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart ; 
But good bye, kind friends, every one, 
I've far to go ere set of sun ; 
Of all good things I would have part, 
The day was high ere I could start, 
And so my journey's scarce begun. 

Heaven help me ! how could I forget 
To beg of thee, dear violet ! 
Some of thy modesty, 
That flowers here as well, unseen, 
As if before the world thou'dst been, 
O give, to strengthen me. 



ODE TO DVTY. — Wordsicorth. 

Stern Daughter of the voice of God ! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 

Who art a Light to guide, a Rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 

Thou, who art victory and law 

When empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain temptations dost set free ; 

And calms't the weary strife of frail humanity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth. 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth : 
Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
Who do thy work, and know it not ; 
Long may the kindly impulse last ! 
But Thou, if they should totter, teach them to 
stand fast ! 



339 

Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet find that other strength, according to their 
need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried ; 

No sport of every random gust, 

Yet being to myself a guide. 

Too blindly have reposed my trust : 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, 1 deferred 

The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control ; 

But in the quietness of thought : 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

I feel the weight of chance desires: 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The God-head's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile ujjon thy face ; 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ; 
And Fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, 
are fresh and strong. 



340 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 

Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give ; 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 



I 



FAMILIAR hOYE.— Mines. 

We read together, reading the same book, 
Our heads bent forward in a half embrace, 
So that each shade that either spirit took, 
Was straight reflected in the other's face; 
We read, not silent, nor aloud, but each 
Followed the eye that passed the page along. 
With a low murmuring sound, that was not speech, 

Yet with so much monotony 

In its half slumbering harmony, 

You might not call it song ; 

More like a bee, that in the noon rejoices, 
Than any customed mood of human voices. 

Then if some wayward or disputed sense 
Made cease awhile that music, and brought on 
A strife of gracious-worded diflerence. 
Too light to hurt our souls' dear unison. 
We had experience of a blissful state. 
In which our powers of thought stood separate, 
Each, in its own high freedom, set apart, 
But both close folded in one loving heart ; 
So that we seemed, without conceit, to be 
Both one and two in our identity. 



341 



DEATH'S FINAL CONQJJEST.— Shirley. 

Iriie glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate ; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings. 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
They tame but one another still : 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breath, 
When they pale captives creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow ; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 

See where the victor victim bleeds : 
All hands must come 
To the cold tomb, 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. 



29* 



342 



THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS— B^ooT/i^eW. 

Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again : 
Companion of the lonely hour! 
Spring thirty times hath fed with rain 
And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower, 

Since thou hast stood, 

In frame of wood, 
On chest or window by my side : 
At every birth still thou wert near. 
Still spoke thine admonitions clear — 

And when my husband died. 

I've often watch'd thy streaming sand 
And seen the growing mountain rise, 
And often found life's hopes to stand 
On props as weak in Wisdom's eyes : 
Its conic crown 
Still sliding down. 
Again heap'd up, then down again ; 
The sand above more hollow grew, 

Like days and years still filtering through. 
And mingling joy and pain. 

While thus I spin and sometimes sing, 
(For now and then my heart will glow,) 
Thou measur'st Time's expanding wing ; 
By thee the noontide hour I know ; 

Though silent thou, 

Still shalt thou flow. 
And jog along thy destin'd way ; 
But when I glean the sultry fields. 
When earth her yellow harvest yields, 

Thou get'st a holiday. 



343 

Steady as truth, on either end 
Thy daily task performing well, 
Thou'rt meditation's constant friend, 
, And strik'st the heart without a bell : 

Come, lovely May ! 

Thy lengthen'd day 
Shall gild once more my native plain ; 
Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine flower ;- 
Companion of the lonely hour, 

I'll turn thee up again. 



MORNING.— Cunni?igfiam. 

In the barn the tenant cock, 

Close to partlet perched on high. 

Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock 1) 
Jocund that the morning's nigh. 

Swiftly from the mountain's brow, 
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire : 

And the peeping sunbeam now, 
Paints with gold the village spire. 

Philomel forsakes the thorn. 

Plaintive when she prates at night ; 
And the lark, to meet the morn. 

Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 

From the low-roofed cottage ridge. 
See the chatt'ring swallow spring ; 

Darting through the one-arched bridge, 
Cluick she dips her dappled wing. 



344 

Now the pine-tree's waving top 
Gently greets the morning gale ; 

Kidlings, now, begin to crop 
Daisies, on the dewy dell. 

From the balmy sweets uncloyed, 
(Restless till her task is done,) 

Now the busy bee's employed 
Sipping dew before the sun. 

Trickling through the creviced rock, 
Where the limpid stream distils, 

Sweet refreshment waits the flock 
When 'tis sun-down from the hills. 

Colin's for the promised corn 
. (Ere the harvest ho])es are ripe,) 
Anxious ; — whilst the huntsman's horn. 
Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. 

Sweet — O sweet, the warbling throng 
On the white-emblossom'd spray 1 

Nature's universal song 
Echoes to the rising day. 



HYMN TO DIANA.— Jo?ison, born in 1574. 

Q-ueene, and huntresse, chaste, and faire, 
Now the sun is laid to sleepe, 
Seated, in thy silver chaire, 
State in wonted manner keepe : 
Hesperus intreats thy light, 
Goddesse, excellently bright. 



345 

Earth, let not thy impious shade 
Dare itself to interpose : 
Cyiitiiia's shining orbe was made 
Heaven to cheere, when day did close ; 
Bless us then with wished sight, 
Goddesse, excellently bright. 

Lay thy bow of pearle apart, 
And thy cristall-shining quiver; 
Give unto the flying hart 
Space to breathe, how short soever : 
Thou that mak'st a day of night, 
Goddesse, excellently bright. 



THE MEN OF OLD.— Milncs. 

I know not that the men of old 

Were better than men now. 

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 

Of more ingenuous brow ; 

I heed not those who pine perforce 

A ghost of Time to raise, 

As if they could check the course 

Of these appointed days — 

Still it is true, and over true. 
That I delight to close 
This book of life, self-wise and new. 
And let my thoughts repose 
On all that humble happiness, 
The world has since foregone, — 
The daylight of contentedness 
That on those faces shoue ! — 



346 

With rights, though not too closely scanned, 

Enjoyed as far as known, — 

With will by no reverse unmanned — 

With pulse of even tone, — 

They from to-day and from to-night 

Expected nolliiug more, 

Than yesterday and yesternight 

Had proffered them before. 

To them was life a simple art 

Of duties to be done, 

A game where each man took his part, 

A race where all must run ; 

A battle whose great scheme and scope 

They little cared to know. 

Content, as men-at-arms, to cope 

Each with his fronting foe. 

Man now his virtue's diadem 

Puts on and proudly wears ; 

Great thoughts, great feelings came to them, 

Like instincts, unawares : 

Blending their souls' sublimest needs 

With tasks of every day, 

They went about their gravest deeds 

As noble boys at play — 

And what if Nature's fearful wound 

They did not probe and bare, — 

For that their spirit never swooned 

To watch the misery there — 

For that their love but flowed more fast, 

Their charities more free. 

Not conscious what mere drops they cast 

Into the evil sea. 



347 

A man's best things are nearest him, 
Lie close about his feet, 
It is the distant and the dim 
,That we are sick to greet : 
For flowers that grow our hands beneath, 
We struggle and aspire — 
Our hearts must die, except they breathe 
The air of fresh Desire. 

But Brothers, who up Reason's hill 

Advance with hopeful cheer — 

O loiter not ! those heights are chill — 

As chill as they are clear ; 

And still restrain your haughty gaze, 

The loftier that ye go. 

Remembering distance leaves a haze 

On all that lies below. 



THE WORTH OF nOVRS—Mllnes. 

Believe not that your inner eye 

Can ever in just measure try 

The worth of Hours as they go by ; — 

For every man's weak self, alas ! 
Makes him to see them, while they pass, 
As through a dim or tinted glass : 

But if in earnest care you would 
Mete out to each its part of good, 
Trust rather to your after-mood. 

Those surely are not fairly spent, 
That leave your spirit bowed and bent 
In sad unrest and ill content ; 



348 

And more — though free from seeming harm, 

You rest from toil of mind or arm, 

Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm, — 

If then a painful sense comes on 
Of something wholly lost and gone, 
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done — 

Of something from your being's chain 
Broke off, nor to be linked again 
By all mere memory can retain, — 

Upon your heart this truth may rise, — 
Nothing that altogether dies, 
Suffices Man's just destinies : 

So should we live, that every Hour 
May die as dies the natural flower — 
A self-reviving thing of power ; 

That every Thought and every Deed 
May hold within itself the seed 
Of future good and future need : 

Esteeming sorrow, whose employ 
Is to develope, not destroy, — 
Far better than a barren Joy. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.— Hunt. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel, writing in a book of gold ; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold : 



349 

And to the presence in the light he said, 
" What wishest thou 1" The vision rais'd his head, 
And, with a look made all of sweet accord, 
Answered, " The names of those who love the 

Lord." 
" And is mine one 1" said Abou. " Nay, not so ;" 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow men" — 
The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night 
It came again, with great awakening light. 
And show'd the names whom love of God had 

blessed, 
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 



THE VIOLET GIRL — Milnes. 

WMien Fancy will continually rehearse 
Some painful scene once present to the eye, 
'Tis well to mould it into gentle verse, 
That it may lighter on the spirit lie. 

Home yestern eve I wearily returned, 

Though bright my morning mood and short my 

way, 
But sad experience, in one moment earned, 
Can crush the heaped enjoyments of the day. 

Passing the corner of a populous street, 
I marked a girl whose wont it was to stand. 
With pallid cheek, torn gown, and naked feet. 
And bunches of fresh Violets in each hand. 

30 



350 

There her small commerce, in the chill March 

weather, 
She plied with accents miserably mild ; 
It was a frightful thought to set together 
Those blooming blossoms and that fading child : — 

-Those luxuries and largess of the earth, 



Beauty and pleasure to the sense of man, 
And this poor sorry weed cast loosely forth 
On life's wild waste to struggle as it can ! 

To me that odorous purple ministers 
Hope-bearing memories and inspiring glee ; 
While meanest images alone are hers, — 
The sordid wants of base humanity. 

Think, after all this lapse of hungry hours 
In the disfurnished chamber of dim cold. 
How she must loathe the very smiling flowers 
That on the squalid table lie unsold ! 

Rest on your woodland banks and wither there. 
Sweet preluders of spring ; far better so, 
Than live, misused to fill the grasp of care, 
And serve the piteous purposes of woe. 



FROM ELEONORA. Dry den. 

As precious gums are not for lasting fire, 
They but perfume the temple, and expire : 
So was she soon exhaled, and vanished hence; 
A short sweet odor, of a vast expense. 



351 

She vanished, we can scarcely say she died ; 

For but a now did heaven and earth divide : 

She passed serenely with a single breath ; 

This moment perfect health, the next was death : 

One sigh did her eternal bliss assure; 

So little penance needs, when souls are almost 

pure. 
As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue; 
Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new ; 
So close they follow, such wild order keep, 
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep: 
So softly death succeeded life in her : 
She did but dream of Heaven, and she was there. 



THE DESERTED UOVSE.— Tennyson. 

Life and thought have gone away, 

Side by side. 
Leaving door and windows wide ; 

Careless tenants they I 
All within is dark as night ! 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

Close the door, the shutters close. 
Or through the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 
Of the dark deserted house. 
Come away ! no more of mirth 
Is here or merry making sound ; 
The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



352 

Come away ! for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 

Would they could have stayed with us. 



A PSALM OF LIFE— Longfellow. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
" ]^ife is but an empty dream !" 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
" Dust thou art, to dust returneth," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave. 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle. 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 



353 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'er head ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footsteps on the sands of time ; 

Footsteps, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing. 
With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing. 
Learn to labor and to wait. 



BERMUDAS.— Marvell. 

Where the remote Bermudas ride. 
In the ocean's bosom unespied ; 
From a small boat, that row'd along. 
The list'ning winds receiv'd this song. 

" What should we do but sing His praise, 
That led us through the watery maze, 
Unto an isle so long unknown. 
And yet far kinder than our own? 
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, 
That lift the deep upon their backs. 
30* 



354 

He lands us on a grassy stage, 

Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. 

He gave us this eternal spring, 

Which here enamels every thing ; 

And sends the fowls to us in care, 

On daily visits through the air. 

He hangs in shades the orange bri^jht, 
Like golden lamps in a green night; 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet ; 
And throws the melons at our feet. 
But apples plants of such a price, 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars, chosen by His hand 
From I^ebanon, he stores the land j 
And makes the hollow seas, that roar, 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The gospel's pearl upon our coast; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple, where to sound His name. 
Oh ! let our voice His praise exalt. 
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault ; 
Which, thence ([)erhaps) rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay." 

Thus sung they, in the English boat, 
An holy and a cheerful note ; 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 



355 



TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY 

Kcble. 

"The heiirt knowetli liis own biueiness ; and a stranger doth not 
intermeddle with his joy." — Proverbs xiv, 10. 

Why should we fliint, and fear to live alone, 
Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die, 

Nor even the tenderest iieart, and next our own. 
Knows half the reasons wh}' we smile or sigh? 

Each in its hidden sphere of joy or woe. 
Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart. 

Our eyes see all around — in gloom or glow — 
Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart. 

And well it is for us our God should feel 
Alone our secret throbbings ; so our prayer 

May readier spring to Heaven, nor spend its zeal 
On cloud-born idols of this lower air. 

For if one heart in perfect sympathy 

Beat with another, answering love for love. 

Weak mortals all entranced on earth would lie, 
Nor listen for those purer strains above. 

Or what if Heaven for once its searching light 
Lent to some partial eye, disclosing ail 

The rude bad thougli's tliat in our l)osom's night 
Wander at large, nor heed Love's gentle thrall ? 

Who would not shun the dreary, uncouth place? 

As if, fond leaning where her infant slept, 
A mother's arm a serpent should embrace : 

So might we friendless live, and die unwept. 



356 

Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn, 
Thou who canst love us, though Thou read'st 
us true ! 

As on the bosom of th' aerial dawn. 

Melts in dim haze each coarse ungentle hue. 



A SONNET.—/??/ Wordsworth. 

Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 

Mindless of its just honors ; with this Key 

Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 

Of this small Lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 

A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso sound ; 

Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief; 

The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle Leaf 

Amid the Cypress with which Dante crowned 

His visionary brow ; a glow-worm Lamp, 

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 

To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a 

damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
The Thing became a Trumpet, whence he blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 



357 



EXPERIENCE.— Jrtnc Taylor. 

How false is found, as on in life we go, 
Our early estimate of bliss and woe ! 
Some sparkling joy attracts us, that we fain 
Would sell a precious birth-right to obtain. 
There all our hopes of happiness are placed ; 
Life looks without it like a joyless waste ; 
No good is prized, no comfort sought beside, 
Prayers, tears implore, and will not be denied. 
Heaven pitying hears the intemperate rude appeal, 
And suits its answer to our truest weal ; 
The self-souglit idol, if at last bestowed, 
Proves what our wilfulness required — a goad. 
Ne'er but as needful chastisement is given, 
The wish thus forced and torn and storm'd from 

Heaven. 
But if withheld, in pity, from our prayer, 
We rave awhile of torment and desjjair, — 
Refuse each proffered comfort with disdain, 
And slight the thousand blessings that remain. 
Meantime Heaven bears the grievous wrong, and 

waits 
In patient pity till the storm abates ; 
Applies with gentlest hand the healing balm, 
Or speaks the ruffled mind into a calm ; 
Deigning, perhaps, to show the mourner soon, 
'Twas special mercy that denied the boon. 

Our blasted hopes, our aims and wishes crost. 
Are worth the tears and agonies they cost, 
When the poor mind, by fruitless efforts spent. 
With food and raiment learns to be content. 
Bounding with youthful hope, the restless mind 
Leaves that divine monition far behind ; 



358 

And, tamed at length by suffering, comprehends 

The tranquil happiness to which it tends ; 

Perceives the high wrought bliss it aimed to share, 

Demands a richer soil, a purer air, — 

That 'tis not fitted, and would strangely grace 

The mean condition of our mortal race ; 

And all we need in this terrestrial spot, 

Is calm contentment with " the common lot." 



SONNET— J. R. Lojcell. 

Through suffering and sorrow thou has past 
To show us what a woman true may be ; 
They have not taken sympathy from thee, 
Nor made thee any other than thou wast : 
Save as some tree which, in a sudden blast, 
Sheddeth those blossoms that were weakly grown 
Upon the air, but keepeth every one 
Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last: 
So thou hast shed some blooms of gaiety. 
But never one of steadfast cheerfulness, 
Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity 
Robbed thee of any faith in happiness. 
But rather cleared thine inner eyes to see 
How many simple ways there are to bless. 



v: 



.rM-.\\5^^ 



U ' 



359 



FROM THE GERMAN OF RIJCKERT.— Milne s. 

Chidhar the Prophet ever young, 
Thus loosed the bridle of his tongue. 

I journeyed by a goodly town, 
Beset with many a garden fair. 
And asked of one who gathered down 
Large fruit, " liow long the Town vvas there 1" 
He spoke, nor chose his hand to stay, 
" The town has stood for many a day, 
And will be here forever and aye." 

A thousand years went by, and then 
I went the selfsame road again. 

No vestige of that Town 1 traced, — 
But one poor swain his horn employed, — 
His sheep unconscious browsed and grazed, 
I asked, " When was that Town destroyed 1" 
He spoke, nor would his horn lay by, 
" One thing may grow and another die, 
But I know nothing of towns — not 1." 

A thousand years went by, and then 
I past the self-same place again. 

There in the deep of waters cast 

His nets one lonely fisherman. 

And as he drew them up at last, 

I asked him, " how that Lake began ?" 

He looked at me, and laughed to say, 

" The waters spring forever and aye. 

And fish are plenty every day." 



360 

A thousand years went by, and then 
I went the self-same road again. 

I found a country wild and rude, 

And, axe in hand, beside a tree, 

The Hermit of that solitude, — 

I asked, " iiow old that Wood might be 1" 

He spoke, " I count not time at all, 

A tree may rise, a tree may fall, 

The Forest overlives us all." 

A tliousand years went on, and then 
1 past the self-same place again. 

And there a glorious City stood. 

And, mid tumultuous market cry, 

I asked, " when rose the Town, where Wood, 

Pasture and Lake forgotten lie ?" 

They heard me not, and little blame, — 

For ihcm the world is as it came, 

And all things must be still the same. 

A thousand years shall pass, and then 
I mean to try that road again. 







ERRATA. 




1', 


line 17, 


for wardens, read 


1 warder. 


'7, 


" 1, 


" glides, " 


glides. 


7(1, 


" 30, 


" and, " 


fully. 


74, 


" 9, 


" have to read, " 


have we to read. 


91, 


" J2, 


" go, " 


ago. 


]I5, 


" 19, 


" main, " 


mane. 


129, 


" 3, 


" tree, " 


trees. 


147, 


" 3, 


" when, " 


where. 


1()2, 


" 1. 


« Ukland, " 


UlUand. 


167, 


" 6, 


" send, " 


lend. 


200, 


" 7, 


" friend, " 


fend. 


225, 


" 11. 


" sword, " 


word. 


246, 


" 20, 


" we, " 


be. 



